


The Ghost Of Your Past And Mine

by apocalypsenah, ineffablefool



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (although no mouth-on-mouth kisses), (but there will be very little that is graphic/explicit here even for warned things), (he is fat and beautiful has that been mentioned lately), (he just hung around the wrong people), (it takes him a while to figure it out once it happens but that's okay), (pretty much instantly), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Human, Arospec Aziraphale, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Eventual Romance, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Internalized Fatphobia, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Sex, No Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, also externalized by people who are Wrong, fat positivity, for both main characters, former petty criminal Crowley, from people who are Right, from people who are again Wrong, some swearing and some ableist language, they're in love you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalypsenah/pseuds/apocalypsenah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/pseuds/ineffablefool
Summary: Twenty-one years ago, two strangers met in a bookshop. One was a teenage delinquent, tired of hanging around the wrong people, and fascinated by the fat, pretty boy employed amongst the books. The other was a university student, well accustomed to being found boring, who wished the first one would go away.Today, two best friends continue to meet in a bookshop. Neither has realized that the other is by now deeply in love with him.  And neither has realized, just yet, how both of their pasts will be coming back to haunt them -- and how they can only defeat that shared ghost together.(Human AU for the DIWS mini bang,1314 chapters, one every Saturday until it ends in an explosion of Soft(TM). Has a podfic!  Illustrated!)
Relationships: Anathema Device & Madame Tracy, Aziraphale & Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device
Comments: 458
Kudos: 300
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, Good Omens Mini Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to the Soft Zone(TM)! Today ineffablefool is joined by wonderful podficcer dragonsquill and also-wonderful illustrator apocalypsenah. We have been brought together by the power of the [Do It With Style Mini Bang](https://do-it-with-style-events.tumblr.com/) to bring you this fic.
> 
> What you can expect: thirteen chapters of alternating POV, ranging from a meeting in a bookshop at the end of the last century up until the present day (in an alternate 2020 where a certain worldwide event is _not_ happening). Some negative self-image from both main characters, especially toward the front of the story. Two decades of friendship, and of love, and a smattering of Shakespeare. A number of familiar characters from the Good Omens TV series, a handful of unfamiliar characters invented just for this story, and -- ilu my aro and ace fam -- zero mouth kisses. There will be lots of kisses on cheeks and foreheads and such, though. And cuddles! It will be lovely.
> 
> **Some warning notes for this fic, please read:** If you are familiar with ineffablefool's usual work, please be aware that this story starts off a little bit less Soft(TM) than usual. (If you are not familiar with ineffablefool's usual work, he likes to describe himself as being made of 100% marshmallow fluff.) There will be Growth, and absolutely a very soft and happy ending, but there is some sad to start. Crowley will express some negative self-image based around his past as a petty criminal. Aziraphale will express some internalized fatphobia. There will also be just plain old fatphobia, including some actual comments made by Extremely Wrong characters within the text, and some biphobia and/or homophobia. Not all chapters are written as of these notes, but so far it's known that there will be mention of sexist behavior, though none happens in the text; there will be mentions of dieting and changes in weight, general criminality (non-graphic mugging, arson, theft, etc), toxic relationships, and weaponry (which won't actually be used to harm anyone). Chapters will always have specific warnings. Please keep yourselves safe.
> 
> ineffablefool bases his writing on the TVverse, but has decided that his written Aziraphale is visibly fat, and is _so pleased_ to have an artist who _gets this_ for this endeavor. Please refer to her wonderful illustrations if you'd like to know what to imagine while reading.
> 
> Title inspo: [Don't Let Me Fall Behind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0pNdOAFGWA) by Jukebox The Ghost has been on ineffablefool's Good Omens playlist for a while, because he thinks it has some real _you go too fast for me Crowley_ vibes.
> 
> _And aren't we all alone?  
>  Well and far behind like I am sometimes  
> Don't treat me like the past  
> Don't let me fall behind_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** Internalized fatphobia, including negative use of the word "fat". Vague reference to past homophobia, but none happens in the text. (Special message to fat people, you are good and lovely and important; special message to queer and/or LGBTQIA+ people, you are great and anyone who disagrees is _remarkably_ mistaken.)

  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghost-ch-1) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
_1999_

This was the third time in two weeks that the customer in sunglasses had been in. 

Aziraphale had started out thinking he’d been a fellow uni student, looking for a place to study, but he never brought in anything to study from. Now he was starting to wonder whether the fellow was actually casing the joint. Although if so, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. He mostly slouched in the same chair, red hair bright in the dim, reading a cheap paperback of _Hamlet_ pulled from a shelf. Or seemed to read it, anyway, although it was impossible to tell.

Sometimes it felt a bit like he was staring at Aziraphale, as Aziraphale worked, shelving books or running the register. Aziraphale was fairly used to that. He didn’t select his clothing, argyle and tartan and neat bow ties, to blend in, after all. And blending in was never an option in any case.

Aziraphale set his last book back on the shelf with a bit more force than the situation called for, then backed away, hands tangling together. His sleeveless jumper felt suddenly too tight. People would be able to see him through it, see the shape of him, the too-large body that had made him an outcast since primary school, that refused to shrink to an acceptable size. He ought to be wearing something baggier. He ought to be hiding it.

He tugged at the front of the jumper, scowling. If it just wouldn’t cling to his stomach so much...

Too late, he realized he’d moved into view of the customer in sunglasses.

The dark lenses were barely visible above the book in his slim hands. There was no reason to think he’d been watching Aziraphale, no reason to think he cared about anything other than the Bard’s words. And even if he was staring right this very moment, that only reflected poorly on him for being so rude. It said nothing about anyone else.

Aziraphale wished he’d go away.

He put a few rows between them, then pulled a book from a shelf almost at random and settled in with a little sigh. It really was a dream job, working in his uncle’s bookshop. He couldn’t imagine anything better — hoped he’d be working here, allowed to roam the stacks and assist in ever more delicate repair work, for all his life. Even though he knew that someday it would be handed down to his cousin Gabriel, and then — well. He’d worry about it then. Gabriel might let him stay on, if he could only prove himself useful enough.

Aziraphale read for fifteen minutes or so. Uncle Francis would be getting ready for his weekly run to the bank, meaning that any moment now, the familiar call would ring out from up front —

“All yours, Azzie!” The buckles on his uncle’s old satchel clicked into place. “Won’t be but two shakes. Mind the stacks here; the large one’s to be reshelved, but the small one’s a hold.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Aziraphale called back.

Footsteps headed for the front door. It opened, bell jangling, then thudded shut.

A smaller sound to his left told Aziraphale that he was no longer alone. He’d gone over to the special collections aisle in order to leave those dratted sunglasses behind. Now they, and their owner, were directly next to him. A tall, thin collection of angles, beneath that shock of red hair, all wrapped up in designer-looking jeans and a leather jacket.

The copy of _Hamlet_ was extended in one long-fingered hand. “Well, that ended poorly.”

“...sorry, what was that?”

“I said,” the fellow emphasized, “that ended poorly. Big pile of bodies, and all.”

Ah. _Hamlet_. Of course.

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale tried on a smile. “One of the greatest works of fiction ever written, you know, all the... bodies aside.”

“I can’t see why he needed to go to all that bother anyway.” He held the book in both hands, thumbs tapping lightly against the cover. “You’re the bloody Prince, mate. Pay some random guy to kill Claudius and live your life, yeah?” He tilted his head. “Also, ghosts aren’t real. So there’s that.”

Aziraphale gaped. “W — well, it’s not that simple...”

He trailed off. It certainly hadn’t taken him twenty years of life to realize that no one wanted to hear him go on about his interests. No, he’d known that for a while, now, known that he was a bore who should really just stick to telling the customers where they could find the latest Harry Potter book.

“Crowley,” the fellow said, as if he thought Aziraphale had merely paused for his name. He even looked _expectant_ , eyebrows raised, mouth slightly parted.

“...Crowley.”

Crowley nodded encouragingly, and that was so unexpected that Aziraphale had to collect his thoughts. He straightened his bow tie, resisting the urge to tug at his jumper.

“Yes. Ah. It’s just that so much of the _point_ of the play is the — the ‘bother’. Hamlet’s inner turmoil, his indecision, aren’t just a plot contrivance, they’re a key part of his character.” Aziraphale felt his heart speed up, his cheeks warm, just a little. It was such a joy to do this, to be able to _talk_ with someone, to not be met with boredom or mockery. “And as for the ghost, what’s fascinating is the way critical interpretation has changed over time — depending on the era, it’s a product of Hamlet’s madness, or of his guilt, or truly a specter from beyond the grave...”

“Not like any of them are necessarily right, though.” One of Crowley’s eyebrows went back up. “Shakespeare’s been dead hundreds of years. Not like anyone knows now what he was _really_ thinking.”

Aziraphale felt something bump his arm: the book, being offered to him again. He accepted it carefully. “I suppose not. In the end, the true interpretation may be somewhat... ineffable.”

Crowley grinned. “No idea what that means.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s cheeks heated again, but with a different emotion this time. “It is... well, beyond our understanding. Incapable of being put into words. I’m sorry, I — I read a lot, you know, pick up all sorts of vocabulary, it makes me sound pretentious —”

“It’s fine,” Crowley interrupted, “I — yeah, it’s fine. Anyway.” He lounged against the end of a shelf, hands wedged into the pockets of his jeans. “Didn’t you have another like that? Same kind of cover, only one of the funny ones instead. I always liked the funny ones better.”

Aziraphale twisted his hands against the copy of _Hamlet_. Cheap modern paperback edition, one of a few Uncle Francis had acquired as overstock from another shop. He knew very well what else had come with it. He always liked to compare the different editions against each other, whenever any Shakespeare came in, and see where the text differed. This lot had included the _Hamlet_ , and _Julius Caesar_ , and then there’d been a comedy. Had been. Past tense.

“Er...” he responded.

“ _Measure For Measure_. Swear it was on the shelf two days ago. What happened to it?”

“Ah...”

Crowley’s mouth ticked downward. “Sold it, did you?”

“Gave it away.”

That knocked the disappointment from Crowley’s face. He actually raised the sunglasses up, as though not sure he could trust what he saw through them, and when he grinned this time, Aziraphale could see his eyes go wide and bright above cheeks that seemed not quite so pale as they’d been a moment ago. “You _what_?”

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale resisted the urge to wring poor _Hamlet_ into bits. “There are students who come here, you know, because they haven’t much money, and this is a _used_ bookshop — and one of them just didn’t have enough, even though she really did need the book, and she looked so worried — so I said, well, here. Just have it for free, then, no need to thank me, and don’t breathe a word to anyone else.” He looked down, feeling his lip trying to quiver. “It was wrong of me, I know.”

Crowley’s response was immediate, and in a different tone than anything else he’d said. “Wasn’t wrong.”

Aziraphale looked up sharply. The sunglasses were back on now.

“Ask her whether it was wrong,” Crowley went on, voice back to what seemed its usual brashness. “Your starving student. She wouldn’t think so.” He turned his head, seeming to focus on something off to his side, giving Aziraphale a momentary view of the tattoo that coiled just in front of his ear. “Probably thinks she’s got someone watching out for her, running into you like that. Guardian angel or something.”

“O-oh. Thank you.” Aziraphale forced his eyes to meet Crowley’s sunglasses. “Really, thank you. It’s been bothering me.”

Crowley shrugged. He pushed himself off the bookshelf and ambled toward the front of the shop, Aziraphale following along beside him without really thinking about it. “Yeah, well, I. I know a lot about doing the wrong thing. Kind of a lot of wrong things done, me.” He glanced Aziraphale’s way for an instant. “Not all of us can be angels.”

The obvious dig — of course Aziraphale was no angel either, angels didn’t look like _this_ — was so unexpected that it halted him mid-stride. “I don’t think that’s funny at all.”

Crowley had made it a couple of paces ahead before stopping. He didn’t turn back to Aziraphale, but only shrugged. “It wasn’t supposed to be.”

He resumed his progress toward the front. Aziraphale followed. There was that pile of reshelving waiting for him by the register, after all. It was reasonable enough for the two of them to be headed the same way for now.

Crowley was a half-dozen steps from the front door when it flew open.

“Ah, she’s a windy one!” Uncle Francis exclaimed, blowing in with satchel clutched tight in one hand, hat clamped firmly to his head with the other. “What a mess. Going to storm tonight for sure.” He continued on in the same vein, hanging his things up on the pegs by the door, patting his clothing back into place.

Aziraphale only half-listened to any of it.

When the door opened, Crowley had startled backwards, feet tangling against each other and pitching him over. The floor was uncarpeted wood here, and there were the corners of tables and shelves everywhere, just waiting to knock against an unwary skull. Aziraphale’s reaction was instinctive.

He sidestepped quickly, putting himself behind Crowley as the latter fell. There wasn’t time to even try to catch him gracefully, to do anything more than serve as a soft place to land, but that was all right. Aziraphale was nothing if not soft. Although _huge_ might be a better word, or _fat_ , or _disgusting_. Crowley would undoubtedly have his own list, if Aziraphale were to enquire.

Crowley landed solidly against him, so comparatively light that Aziraphale kept his balance with ease.

All this happened before Uncle Francis had even closed the door. One of Aziraphale’s arms curled reflexively around Crowley’s chest, holding him up. One of Crowley’s hands had grabbed Aziraphale’s, the way a drowning man might grab at a bit of driftwood.

Aziraphale felt Crowley draw in a long breath.

“Thanks,” Crowley said. That was all — just the one quiet word. He pulled away from Aziraphale’s hold with an almost dreamlike slowness, leaving Aziraphale wondering whether he hadn’t hit his head after all.

Crowley turned back toward him, head lowered. Then he bent down, picking something up off the floor and offering it silently.

The copy of _Hamlet_. Aziraphale must have dropped it.

Uncle Francis turned just as Aziraphale pressed the slightly bruised book between his hands. “Ah! And how can we help you, young man?”

_Answer carefully, lad_ , said the tone of his voice — a tone Aziraphale had found himself adopting, using more and more often, even though this wasn’t his shop to protect. _I’ll sell the common stuff if I must, but if you so much as suggest I part with anything you can’t find somewhere else..._

Crowley’s sunglasses pointed in no particular direction. “Wasn’t really planning on, on being helped. Just wanted to look.”

Uncle Francis’s smile was a little friendlier now. “It’s an impressive collection, if I can be forgiven saying so myself. You’re welcome to take a look any time.”

“Collection.” Crowley nodded. “Right. Have a good day, sir.”

The sunglasses swung toward Aziraphale.

“Angel.”

Crowley slipped out the door and was gone.

“Friend from class, is he?”

“No.” Aziraphale tried to imagine Crowley sauntering into the classroom for Xenophon: Politics, Identity and Text in Classical Greece. “I’ve never seen him outside the shop.”

“Hmm. Do you fancy him?”

From anyone else, it might have been a cruel joke. Aziraphale didn’t talk about that part of himself, didn’t admit it, even if he’d weathered countless slurs and insinuations about it — except he had to Uncle Francis, years ago, and Uncle Francis had hugged him and told him to never be ashamed of anything that he was.

The question had been asked in kindness, and that let Aziraphale answer freely rather than just stuttering out a frantic denial. “I... I don’t think so, no.” He frowned. “He’s a bit rough. And he thought _Hamlet_ was _too much bother_.”

His uncle laughed for a while at that. “Well, I surely can’t argue your logic there. No matter. If he gives you trouble, let me know and I’ll turn him out for good. He’ll be welcome enough meanwhile.”

“Yes, Uncle.” Aziraphale looked down at the book in his hands. “I don’t think there will be any trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please join us, if you like, on Saturday July 18, for a dip into Crowley's point of view in the present time!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, Crowley spends time he doesn't enjoy with Hastur and Ligur, then spends time he very much does enjoy with Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** Vague mentions of arson, drugs, and of creepy behavior toward women. Brief reference to past fatphobic instances, including a use of the word "fat" (but no actual fatphobic statements are present in the text).

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghost-of-your-past-and-mine-ch-2) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
_2020_

Crowley resisted the urge to swear.

“Actually, no, fuck that,” he said. “Fuck this. Fuck literally everything ever.”

He pushed the Bentley a little harder. She responded just like she always did, engine slashing through the quiet evening, distance vanishing beneath her tires.

It was always a bad idea to pick up when it was one of the old gang. He needed to stop. Needed to change his number, change his name. Move to Iceland and learn to fish. Finally figure out how to pronounce Reykjavík.

But Ligur had rung him, and he’d picked up, because he was an idiot. And before he knew it, he’d been driving halfway to Oxford to have a drink with Ligur and Hastur. Their old dive bar had fallen to the kingdom of the rats years ago, but the Churchyard was already almost as seedy despite being maybe five years old.

Crowley had outgrown the kind of bar where checking IDs was as optional as mopping the floor. Apparently his old mates hadn’t.

“It was a victimless crime,” Ligur had said. “Literally. The only ‘victim’ is the guy that hired us, and he’s probably counting his insurance payout as we speak.”

Hastur mostly hadn’t said anything. He’d just slumped onto the table, unwashed hair and blank-staring eyes and a vague smell of filth, and he’d leered. Not _at_ anything, exactly, just... in general. It was a lot harder to put up with now that they weren’t all kids, with him the only one old enough to buy cigarettes.

“Hastur took care of the fire,” Ligur had gone on, and Hastur leered a little harder. “I kept an eye out. Wasn’t any need, though. The watchman was home sick, just like our client promised.”

Crowley had grimaced. “Come on, guys. I get we were — were young and stupid and angry once, not denying that, okay. And yes, the fires were fun sometimes. Just — ngh — it’s all sort of, of in the past now, isn’t it?” He looked from Hastur’s uncomprehending eyes to Ligur’s narrowed ones. “We’re past that.”

“ _You’re_ past that.” Ligur’s voice had been acid with scorn. “I think you’ve lived too long in that fancy neighborhood. You’ve forgotten where you came from. Forgotten us. Hasn’t he, Hastur?”

“Forgotten all about his old mates,” Hastur oozed out. “And after all we did for ‘im.”

“No, it’s not like —”

Ligur waved a hand. “It’s fine. You’ve obviously got plenty of new friends now, ones you aren’t _past_. You can talk with them about wine and retirement funds and bollocks like that. Don’t need us anymore, do you?”

“Probably has a girlfriend,” Hastur had said. His lips pulled back unpleasantly. “A pretty girlfriend. Yeah?”

“Doesn’t matter, Hastur, we’ll never meet her.” Ligur eyed Crowley over the rim of his glass. “She’ll be too good for the likes of us.”

Crowley had closed his eyes behind his glasses. Fluffy blond curls, and laughing eyes, and tender hands to take in his own, to press to his lips, if only their owner — if — “No girlfriend. I’m not — look, I’m not trying to say I’m, what, _too good_ for you or something, just —”

“All right, then. Stop acting like you are.”

And that’d settled that. Crowley sat there another couple of hours, nursing the one bottle of beer, because he wasn’t about to drink anything that he hadn’t seen opened right in front of him. Listened to Ligur doing most of the talking. It was all the same old crap that had seemed like Crowley should have found it cool, back in secondary, back when he’d finally found someone willing to be mates with the weird kid. Fast talk about drugs and petty crimes and a verbal molestation of every woman in a ten-kilometer radius. With occasional interjections from Hastur.

Twenty-five years, and he was still stuck right back here.

“Same time next week?” Ligur had asked as Crowley had climbed into his miraculously-un-broken-into car. And “Yeah,” Crowley had said without thinking, “yeah, sounds great.”

Which was why he was swearing at the windscreen now. Thinking of changing his name, moving to Iceland, doing anything that would let him pretend like he’d changed at all. Like he deserved anything more than this.

He was hurtling back toward London, not to his flat, but to the only place he’d call home, given the right. Within an hour he was knocking on the door. The same old pattern of knuckles on wood. The one that would be answered as long as there was still a light on inside, Closed sign be damned.

“For the record,” said a scolding voice from inside, “it is nearly one in the morning.” Locks turned, and the door cracked open. “Do get in here.”

Crowley slipped through, feeling the rest of his evening fade just the tiniest bit as he breathed in the familiar smell. Paper and leather, glue and ink. The bookshop was another thing that hadn’t much changed, and he figured it probably never would if Aziraphale had any say in it.

Lavender, too, and clean fresh soap. Both much closer. Aziraphale _had_ changed over the decades, just a little. But only for the better.

“You idiot,” he was saying, locking the door again. “I’m an insomniac, it isn’t as though I won’t be awake for hours yet, but you need your sleep, and yet here you are —”

Aziraphale turned around, finally meeting Crowley’s eyes. “Oh,” he said, much quieter. “Is something wrong?”

  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_

So fucking beautiful he was, in the dim light. In any light. Soft from the top of his pale curls down to his fuzzy house slippers. Soft hand on Crowley’s arm, soft voice saying something about the sofa. Soft eyes in a soft face, twenty years’ more lines on that face now, making it even more perfect than the first time Crowley had seen it. Soft body, too, already perfect when Crowley had first wandered in here looking for a place to just fucking _think_ for five minutes, and also even more perfect now. Another of those little changes, the widening of his love handles, the rounding of his cheeks. Beautiful. Only for the better.

Crowley was on the sofa now, same place he’d been a thousand times before. A glass was pressed into his hand, and then Aziraphale settled into his own chair, a few feet away but also miles. Light-years. Past Proxima Centauri at least.

“Was in Oxfordshire tonight,” Crowley told him. Knocked back his drink without caring what it was — scotch. Not quite the good stuff. Aziraphale knew him too well.

Knew him well enough to understand what he meant, too. Soft brows drew together above his worried, pretty eyes. “Didn’t you... think you’d seen the last of them? After, well...”

“After I refused to help literally steal records from a birthing hospital, yeah.” Crowley tried to gulp his scotch again, then remembered it was empty. “Figured that was our last falling-out. Guess not. Guess there’s still more falling to do. Look, can I get a top-off, or —”

He stumbled off the sofa, over to Aziraphale’s chair with the bottle on the table beside it. When he held out his glass, though, Aziraphale plucked it away. Pudgy fingers touched Crowley’s for one shivering instant.

“I’m not sure alcohol is quite what you need right now.” He set the glass down, ignoring Crowley’s splutters. “What has that lot of hooligans asked you to do this time?”

Crowley glared at his empty glass, but it very rudely failed to reappear in his hand full of scotch. “ _My_ lot. And don’t say ‘hooligans’. Makes you sound like my granddad.”

Aziraphale tutted. His lips were fighting a smile, though — his eyes had already lost — and Crowley was glad to have been able to do that, anyway. 

“They didn’t ask anything.” He slouched over to the sofa again. “No favors, no capers. Nothing.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yep,” Crowley agreed. “I’m fucked.”

Aziraphale swirled his own glass around before taking a tiny sip. “Perhaps... perhaps it was just a social call? Perhaps they’ve finally... well, matured a bit. Moved on from all that.”

“They’ll never _move on_. It’s just...” Crowley sighed. “We don’t change, people like us. Me and them. Once a _hooligan_ , always a hooligan.”

Aziraphale’s voice seemed a little gentler when he answered. “You did.”

“Me? Nah.”

He stood up again. Paced the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Stopped and faced Aziraphale, who was pretty and soft and hadn’t ever nicked a purse in his life.

“I can’t ever get away from it in the end. Just another lowlife. That’s what I am.”

The words came out harsher than he’d meant, and angrier. It wasn’t Aziraphale he was angry with, because it wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault. It was only his fault, was Crowley’s, the same old story. He was the one who’d never kept a friend more than five minutes before Hastur and Ligur, wasn’t he? Who’d slipped easily into that life, stealing and smashing and watching Hastur burn half the abandoned buildings in Oxfordshire. Who’d found exactly one person willing to be his friend in all the years since, and then had to go and risk that miracle by being in love despite not deserving Aziraphale at all.

No wonder he couldn’t leave his past behind. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Something painful flashed over Aziraphale’s face, just for a second, not long enough for Crowley to label. “You might have been like them once, my dear fellow, but it would have been a very long time ago.”

Crowley scoffed.

“And it was well before I met you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes held his, dark and flashing and too beautiful to survive for long. Another scoff lost itself in Crowley’s throat.

“I’m ashamed to admit that I had my doubts about you, the first time we spoke. But I was wrong, Crowley. You have always been one of the finest people it has ever been my pleasure to know.”

Crowley felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “You need to know more people.”

“Only because it’s selfish of me to monopolize my best friend’s time. Now.” Aziraphale picked up Crowley’s glass. “If I pour you another, will you promise to sit down and stop pacing my rugs?”

The tiniest hint of a smile peeked from his eyes, and when Crowley laughed, the smile grew warm and full and glorious. Crowley had done some stupid things over the years for that smile. Never regretted any of them.

The subject of Oxfordshire was put aside for now, although not really closed. Aziraphale just left off with one last soul-searching look. “I am here to talk about it, Crowley,” he’d said, “if ever you want to. I — I care about you very much.”

Crowley tasted _I love you_ on his tongue. “Back atcha,” he said, bland and unsatisfying.

He sipped more carefully at this second pour, since getting drunk had stopped seeming interesting back around the time he finally legally could. “Speaking of, I can see the letter on your desk from here. Recognize that letterhead anywhere. Gabriel after you again, is he?”

“Oh, ‘again’. ‘Still’. All the same, I suppose. He and his associates simply won’t take no for an answer.” Aziraphale made a face, wrinkling his nose more adorably than a grown man had any right to do. “I will never understand how Uncle Francis and Aunt Tori could have raised such an unpleasant individual. Do you know, he once gave me a diet book for Christmas? The last one our parents had the whole family spend together, thank goodness.”

His voice was light, with just the usual amount of Gabriel-related annoyance in it. The hand lying relaxed on top of his belly didn’t so much as twitch. Crowley still remembered what it was like to see Aziraphale hurting from shit like that. Had thrown a punch, once, maybe fifteen years ago, when some arsehole on the pavement had called him “fat” and not meant it as a simple description. The old watchfulness was still there, even now.

“Alas, he’s considered the shop his birthright since we were boys, and he remains adamant to this day.” A wave of his hand toward the desk. “Hence the latest offer to buy.”

“And you still won’t, uh...”

Aziraphale frowned. “I have loved this place since I was a child. I practically grew up here. It’s where we _met_. I would never give it up just for _money_.”

A beat of silence. Two. Crowley carefully stored away the memory of how it felt to be part of why the shop was important. “Okay.”

“No, the offer goes in the bin, same as all of the others.” Aziraphale looked down into his glass, something that was maybe a smile glancing across his face. “We’ve too many memories here to give up, don’t you think?”

“Nnh,” Crowley said. “Twenty-one years of ‘em. Kind of a lot, I guess.”

Twenty-one years and some odd months since he’d wandered in, just wanting someplace dim and safe, somewhere he could pretend to not be Crowley the delinquent for a while. Not expecting the cutest guy he’d ever seen to be busily dusting a shelf. Round belly pressing against his button-up shirt as he worked, humming to himself, and seventeen-year-old Crowley had never understood the desire to do... do _stuff_ with another person, but he did understand the desire to wrap his long arms around a pretty girl and never let go. And pretty boys, sometimes. This pretty boy. Dark eyes that never wanted to settle on a color, and a mouth that never wanted to be still, and a laugh that sparkled.

He wasn’t sure how it would feel to hold all that soft belly, wasn’t sure how so much beauty would fit in his arms. Sure he wouldn’t want to let go, though. This starlight-haired stranger was more attractive than he’d known a human could be, and he’d come back to the shop repeatedly just to be able to look at him. Until he’d made the mistake of talking to him, after which it hadn’t just been fascination with Aziraphale’s physical beauty. It’d been love for his adorable fussy soul.

Seventeen-year-old Crowley hadn’t known how much more gorgeous Aziraphale would be, now. But thirty-nine-year-old Crowley still didn’t know what it was like to hold all that soft belly in his trembling, reverent arms. Some things really did never change.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I think we can manage at least that much again,” he said. He raised his glass, eyes shining. “If you are so inclined.”

“Give you a hundred, angel,” Crowley’s mouth answered before he could stop it. “Thousands. But another twenty-one’s a good start.”

The smile that burst over Aziraphale’s face was all Crowley needed in that moment. Pretty eyes sparkling, round cheeks pink. Mouth so full of delight that it couldn’t be contained, that a bubbly little gasp of “ _Crowley_ ” slipped out, and Crowley tucked that memory away, too. Safe with all the others he’d kept over the years.

He half-rose from the sofa, stretching out his glass, as Aziraphale reached out too.

_Clink_.

“To all the years,” Aziraphale said softly. “Together.”

Crowley smiled past the knot in his chest. “Together.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Back in 2004, Aziraphale runs unexpectedly into a familiar face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 2004, Aziraphale runs into someone unexpected in the alley behind the bookshop, and the two of them end up with a rather peculiar arrangement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** Mention of vandalism, plus graffiti as an actual in-text event. Mention of (unintentional) changes in weight. Use of the word "fat" in a neutral-to-positive context, as well as **in a negative, internalized-fatphobia context**. Additional general internalized fatphobia. This is about the worst the internalized fatphobia in this story will get.

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghosts-of-your-past-and-mine-ch-3) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
_2004_

Uncle Francis had been very clear about the limits of Aziraphale’s duty to the shop. Clean and shelve and attend to customers, as long as their shopping was confined to the appropriate rows; mind the place in general, on those occasions when an errand took its owner elsewhere, but only insofar as he would be aware of any unexpected activity. Uncle Francis had once quite literally jumped a would-be shoplifter, pinning him easily to the ground — it seemed that he and Aziraphale shared a general phenotype — and scolding him soundly while then-twelve-year-old Aziraphale had rung for the police. This was not a level of dedication which Aziraphale was expected to show now.

Still, it was just him this afternoon, while Uncle Francis was away at the neighborhood shopkeepers’ meeting. For three weeks now an impromptu little association had been gathering, as this part of Soho found itself in the midst of a wave of vandalism. Today’s meeting was at the chemist’s a block over.

Aziraphale was alone, the shop locked up early for the day. There really should not have been noises coming from the alley out back.

He certainly was under no obligation to _investigate_ those noises.

Even if it wasn’t merely a stray cat, or something else innocuous — well, it wasn’t as if anyone had been hurt in all this, was it? There had been a few windows broken, a few planters overturned. Mostly it had been graffiti, clumsily scrawled by what Aziraphale couldn’t help but think were amateurs. Children, perhaps. Not hardened criminals. He and Uncle Francis had spent a long afternoon last week painting over their work, and that had been frustrating, yes, but... no one had been harmed. There was even still paint left for if it happened again. Most importantly, scaring off a wayward teenager or two might take his mind off that awful mess this morning, at least for a few minutes.

His hands therefore only shook a little as he pushed open the back door.

“Hello?” he called into the sudden silence. “I... oh. Is someone back here?”

There was a light fixture, high on the exterior wall of the building across the alley, but it wouldn’t turn on until evening. The space was very dim at this time of day. It was still more than bright enough for him to see a shadowy figure rise from behind the bins.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, rather foolishly. “Right. Um... hello. I — I was hoping, ah...”

“You might want to leave if you know what’s good for you,” the figure intoned. Its voice was muffled, face hidden behind something, head and body covered in a dark hooded jumper. “Just turn around and go back inside.”

Suspicion dawned. The mysterious figure towered, some inches taller than Aziraphale, though much, much thinner. And the voice... “Is that you under there, Crowley?”

“Tsch,” the figure replied, sounding disgusted. It pushed its hood back, tugged a cloth from its face. Red hair stood up in disarray above familiar gold-brown eyes.

  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_  
  


“What the hell are you playing at?” Relief led quickly to irritation, then to embarrassment. He hadn’t seen Crowley in weeks, and for him to show up today of all days...

Narrow shoulders shrugged. “I’m, you know. Doing what I apparently do best. Spreading mayhem. Little light vandalism.” His mouth twitched down. “Meant to be, anyway.”

This morning’s wardrobe debacle seemed very distant, all of a sudden. Aziraphale moved a few cautious steps closer. “The windows, the graffiti... that’s been you?”

“My lot,” Crowley said. This time his mouth drew down so sharply that Aziraphale half-expected tears to follow. “I haven’t had to break anything yet. But...”

He pulled a cylindrical something out of a jumper pocket and shook it. The rattle was unmistakable.

“Ligur hit you last week. I’m meant to do it today, and a couple other places, only...”

Crowley waded out from the bins, stopping perhaps five feet from Aziraphale. His face was pinched, a smudge of dirt on one cheek, and his shoulders slumped. “I don’t _want_ to. You know? I can’t see what the point is of any of this. Fuck around with a bunch of people who never did anything to us.”

The two of them still weren’t exactly close. Aziraphale had a dim understanding of Crowley’s group of friends, though, based on hints he’d dropped over the years. Three troubled young men who’d met in secondary, and had raised merry hell for a time, shoplifting from corner shops and selling cigarettes behind the school. He’d gotten the idea that Crowley had drifted apart from the others. Perhaps this was not the case.

“Well, ah.” He realized his hands had started to wring themselves against his middle, and he pulled them down to his sides, face going hot. He would _not_ draw attention to that part of himself like that. It already took up enough as it was, took up enough _space_ , and now he was thinking again about the sad pile of clothing that would still be on the floor of his room. Everything he’d been keeping in the hopes of a better day, until he’d realized this morning that that day would never come.

“Well,” he said again. “Couldn’t you, oh... just refuse? Just, just tell them...”

Crowley’s eyes widened, though, and he shook his head. “Can’t just say _no_. This is what we do, we...” There was a chip of stone by his foot, and he nudged it aside, closer to the scattering of similar rubble at the edge of the alley. “I don’t have anything but them, right? And this is what they like. So.”

He rubbed his cheek, wiping some of the dirt away.

“I think you need better friends,” Aziraphale said quietly. “These ones don’t seem to suit you.”

Crowley’s laugh slashed like a knife. “You see anyone lining up for that?”

For a few moments, they only stared at each other. Aziraphale didn’t know what his own expression might look like, but Crowley’s was plain enough: clenched jaw, wounded eyes beneath the gathered line of his brows. His shoulders were hunched practically to his ears.

Then the eyes wavered. Crowley looked at him, actually _looked_ instead of merely glaring, and the tension drained from his posture. 

Aziraphale didn’t understand this new expression at all, but at least it wasn’t hurt or angry anymore. The eyes that flickered over him, toe to tip, seemed softer. Even when they seemed to linger on the ugly excess of Aziraphale’s stomach, they showed no hint of disgust.

Aziraphale crossed his arms. “I... I suppose that they’ll want to know you... followed through?”

“Sometimes we go round and look after.” Here was the disgust. Directed at the ground, though, and not at Aziraphale at all. “‘S why I have to, you know. Be seen to be doing something, every now and again.”

The beginnings of a probably very bad idea were forming in Aziraphale’s head. It wasn’t even as though he and Crowley were friends; but then, wasn’t that the problem? Crowley had no friends except for those two hoodlums. He was nice enough to talk to, though, and he was kind. Even to a fat fool like Aziraphale, he was kind. He ought to at least be given a chance.

“Hate doing it, though.” Pale brown eyes raised to his again. “Especially to you.”

Very well.

“Then you don’t have to,” Aziraphale said — “At least not today.” Crowley’s opened mouth closed silently. “They’d be happy enough if you could say you’ve done one, yes?”

“Wuh, I suppose —”

Aziraphale held up a hand. “We’ll each do the other a favor. First, I will — will mark up the bookshop for you. And then you will help me paint it over tomorrow.”

Silence covered everything for a moment, while Crowley stared at him as though he’d grown wings. At last his mouth crooked back in a sort of smile. “You want us to both do a lot of work in a dingy back alley to... what, cancel each other out?”

“We’ll be doing each other favors,” Aziraphale said firmly. “As friends.”

The smile was definite, now, and transforming. Crowley seemed almost a different man like that, his face no longer dirty and tired, but alight with joy. Quite lovely, actually. Aziraphale had realized years ago that Crowley was actually very attractive, in a way he generally distrusted, because pretty people were often the cruelest. This smile was different. It made him want to smile back.

“Friends,” Crowley said. “Okay. Yeah.”

Aziraphale waited for more, but that seemed to be it. “What are you supposed to be writing?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve just been doing sort of squiggles. Only —” Crowley gestured vaguely toward him, no longer quite meeting his eyes. “You can’t, can’t do it like that.”

“Like what?”

Golden-brown eyes flickered over him again, then focused on a wall. “Gh. I mean. That’s, that’s a new shirt, right? Never seen you in that shirt before. It looks. Um.”

Crowley nudged the toe of his boot into the pavement. “It’s nice,” he mumbled. “Shouldn’t get paint on it.”

Aziraphale felt something unpleasant claw at his heart. He had no idea what Crowley was on about, but the idea that anything about his attire today was _nice_ , that anything about his appearance could _ever_ be considered _nice_...

The response tore from him, slow at first, faster as it went on. “Well, no. You’ve never seen me in it, because it never fit. It wasn’t _supposed_ to fit.”

He glared down at it. An ordinary button-up shirt, for the most part, long-sleeved, an admittedly pleasing shade of blue. The color wasn’t the problem. The size was the problem, and the shape. His shape.

“It’s been in the back of my wardrobe for years. A gift, you know. From one of my aunts. But it was too _big_. Always too big, because I might be fat, but I’m not _that_ fat.”

He spat the word, hating the way it left his tongue, the grating fricative. Ugly sounds to describe an ugly thing. 

“Except I am now. All my — my proper clothing, it’s getting too tight. And everything I was keeping in the hopes I might fit into it someday, well. Those hopes are dead, I suppose.” Aziraphale thought of his favorite waistcoat, the one he had kept in tip-top condition for six years, all through university and then afterward. May as well have burned it for all the use it would be to him now.

“So. No. It’s not _new_ , and it doesn’t look _nice_. And I’m not sure I care if it gets completely ruined. It — the damage is already done.”

He looked up for the first time since beginning his little tirade.

Crowley’s eyes were wide, mouth hanging open. Well, he’d be shocked, of course. That was a humiliating display.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley shook his head. He began moving, then, pacing around Aziraphale, seeming to want to inspect him from every angle. Aziraphale submitted with his chin (his _chins_ ) held as high as he could manage.

The inspection ended with Crowley back in front of Aziraphale. “Nah,” he said.

Aziraphale blinked. “Come again?”

“No damage. It looks n — it looks _good_.” Crowley’s face seemed to take on the slightest pink hue. “You l-look good. Friends’re supposed to tell you if, if you don’t, right? But you do. Fat and all.”

The word slipped gently from his mouth.

“It’s your shirt. Do whatever you want. Just. I. I’d be sad if you couldn’t wear it again.”

Aziraphale felt his own face warming. Crowley was attractive, and attractive people did not say things like these except in jest. The entire idea of their being friends might just be a joke to him, something to laugh about with his true friends later, after he’d gotten his fill of toying with Aziraphale...

No. Crowley was kind. He’d had four years to disprove the theory, and he never had yet.

“I... I could put on something old of Uncle Francis’s,” Aziraphale said. “There are some things in the shop from when we were painting. He’s fatter than I am, so they work as a sort of smock.”

The descriptor lost its barb when used for someone else. Uncle Francis was an exemplary human being, and Aunt Tori found him very handsome, if the way she kissed him when she came home from work was any indication. There wasn’t anything wrong with _him_. 

Crowley smiled at Aziraphale now, open and sweet. “Take your time,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

A small pile of Uncle Francis’s old shirts was still tucked behind the counter. Aziraphale knew perfectly well that he was alone in the shop, not visible from any of the windows from here, but it was still a struggle to make himself strip down to his vest. The button-up hid some of the gruesome details; clinging knit cotton in a size too small did not.

At least he could feel almost small in Uncle Francis’s shirt.

“Now,” he said, stepping briskly back out into the alley. “The spray paint, if you please?”

Crowley fumbled the can out of his jumper, then dipped the other hand into a pocket. “There’s a, uh, a thing on the lid, you’ll need a —”

“A screwdriver, yes, thank you.” Aziraphale accepted the tool just long enough to lever open the cap, then gave the can a few practiced shakes. Still full, from the heft. “Now... just a scribble, you said?”

When he looked back, he realized that Crowley was staring at him. The familiar anxious jolt faded quickly, because this was not the kind of stare he was used to. Crowley’s eyes moved from Aziraphale’s face to the can and back again. His lazy grin very much invited Aziraphale to be in on the joke, not the butt of it.

“Oh, _do_ stop,” Aziraphale said, not sounding quite as cross as he’d intended. “Of course I know my way around a can of spray paint. I’ve made a few model airplanes in my time.”

Crowley’s grin widened. “Model airplanes. Sure, sure.”

Aziraphale very pointedly did not answer. Instead he took a deep breath, raised the can, and got to work.

Uncle Francis seemed only mildly irritated when he came home to this latest bit of vandalism, and visibly cheered when Aziraphale said he would handle it with the help of a friend. “That lad with the tattoo, is it? Good, good. He could use a friend, that one.”

The next morning was bright and calm, and graced by Crowley ambling in through the front door right on time. Within five minutes they were out in the alley with a bucket of red-brown paint in tow.

“Oh, you’re leaving roller marks, angel,” Crowley said at one point. “You have to smooth it out when you’re done, see?”

Aziraphale stepped back, not really watching the demonstration. It was maybe a bit late to ask this question now, but... “Crowley. Why do you call me that?”

Crowley’s roller paused briefly. “Call you what?”

“‘Angel’.”

The roller moved rhythmically now, in an efficient up-and-down sweep. Crowley was very focused on it. “I, er. Got in the habit, I spose. Didn’t know your name right at first.” Crowley looked at him briefly, but then the roller pan seemed to draw his attention. “Your uncle called you ‘Azzie’, but, wh. Just. You don’t look like an Azzie.”

“Ah.”

Aziraphale loaded up his own roller again, returning to the wall and trying to follow Crowley’s example. The follow-up question wouldn’t be ignored, though. “But I look like an _angel_?”

Crowley sputtered through a variety of syllables, and dropped his roller on his shoe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: In the present, Crowley meets some new faces (who are perhaps familiar to us!).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, Crowley meets the owners of a local shop on his way to Aziraphale's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** Some negative self-talk, brief mention of casual sexism. Use of the word "fat" in a neutral-to-positive context.

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghost-ch-4) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
_2020_

The woman smiled at Crowley, like she expected an answer. Like what she’d just said made any sense at all.

“I, err, you wh — eurgh. My. Uh. What now?”

She tilted her head. “I’m sorry, love. Your boyfriend, then? Partner?” Her forehead wrinkled as he continued choking on the starts of words. “That nice Mr Fell who owns the bookshop, I mean. I thought the two of you were, ah...”

“Fine,” Crowley answered, “he’s fine. Last I knew, anyway, haven’t actually seen him in a couple days, we’re best mates but I don’t — I don’t _live_ there or anything.”

“Oh,” said the woman, giving him what was probably supposed to be a subtle side-eye.

Crowley hadn’t been bothering anyone. He’d just been walking innocently down the pavement, headed from where he’d parked the Bentley to Aziraphale’s shop on the corner. Couple doors down and he’d’ve made it. But he’d made eye-to-sunglasses contact with the brightly-scarved woman arranging a signboard outside another shopfront — _Grand Reopening Special, Tarot Readings £10_ — and apparently she’d mistaken him for someone else. Namely, himself, only married to Aziraphale.

“Well, anyway. We’ve been trying to get over to introduce ourselves all week, but something always seems to come up!” She held out a hand, palm down. “I’m Madame Tracy. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Crowley considered the hand. Was he supposed to shake it, or...

“Name’s Crowley,” he said, because that part he knew.

Madame Tracy smiled, dipping in a sort of mini curtsey, and maybe the hand thing was optional because now she’d lowered hers again. “I don’t know whether you ever stopped by before we took over — the previous owner is a dear friend of mine, had to retire for her health, poor thing —”

Crowley glanced up at the sign over the door. He was pretty sure he’d never been in Crystal Magus Occult Shoppe And Gifts.

“— but Anathema and I are looking forward to getting to know all our new neighbors.” Her smile flashed brightly. “And of course their friends.”

She turned to call back into the shop. “Anathema! Come and meet Mr Fell’s Crowley!”

Crowley’s destination was still only a couple shops away, just past the cafe which Aziraphale refused to ever visit because they put walnuts in their scones. Forty feet, fifteen-odd paces, and he’d be opening that heavy antique door. He’d find Aziraphale, and Aziraphale would smile at him, and Crowley would _not_ kiss his pretty round cheek, would _not_ hold his pretty round body, wouldn’t breathe in a huge double lungful of sweet lavender and let it out on a whisper of “Hi, angel, I love you”...

But before he could not do any of that, it looked like he had to be gently dragged into Crystal Magus.

There was a smell a little like an incense factory had caught on fire a month ago, but it didn’t seem like anything was being burned now. There were some racks that held crystals, but none Crowley could see that held maguses. Also there were scarves. And beads.

  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_

A set of heavy velvet curtains next to the candles swayed, turned, and revealed themselves to actually be a dress, currently in possession of a second woman. Maybe fifteen years younger than Crowley, to balance out Madame Tracy being that much older. Dark-skinned and dark-haired where Tracy was bright and loud and very, very ginger.

“Hi there,” the woman wearing not-curtains (Anathema?) said in a brisk American accent. “Nice to finally meet at least one of the bookshop husbands.”

This time Crowley wasn’t completely waylaid by the suggestion, so he just grimaced.

“It turns out we had it all wrong,” Madame Tracy said, looking at possibly-Anathema. “Crowley and Mr Fell are very good _friends_.” Then she turned her smile back on Crowley. “This is Anathema, my co-owner on this little venture! She’s quite the expert on several areas of occult study.”

Anathema adjusted her glasses, seeming to size Crowley up. “I can also predict certain future events based on prophecies written by a seventeenth-century ancestor. But those aren’t generally for sale.”

“Right,” Crowley replied.

“Don’t worry about the vase.”

Crowley turned to look behind himself — what vase, what was she talking about, he hadn’t said anything about any _vase_ — and his flailing hand connected with something hard. There was a crash.

One of the nearby displays, he realized, was full of ceramic gewgaws, including some things which were maybe vases, although they were designed to look more like funeral urns. That shelf wasn’t quite full, though. One of its contents was now in shards on the floor.

Madame Tracy sighed. “Oh. And here I’d hoped you’d interpreted that one wrong.”

“I’ll, uh. I’ll pay for it, obviously I’ll pay for it, I didn’t mean to —” Crowley’s voice dried up. Of course he hadn’t meant to, no one was _saying_ he had, but that’d been the done thing in his circle for a while, hadn’t it? The sound of breaking glass had been pretty fucking familiar once, and breaking pottery wasn’t that far off.

“Now, don’t be silly, young man.” Madame Tracy patted him gently on the arm, then shooed him away from the rubble. “Anathema, the broom will be back in the storage —”

Crowley felt like he was the only one surprised when Anathema turned around and grabbed a broom from directly behind herself.

“Don’t bother to wonder whether you’d still have broken it if I hadn’t said anything,” she told him, handing the broom off to Tracy. “It’ll just drive you nuts.”

Her tone was still matter-of-fact, like she was telling him the price of a pack of gum. There was a little glint in her eye now, though. Her mouth twitched upward for just a second.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “That another of your not-for-sale predictions? You two’ve got a weird business model.”

The deadpan melted away into a little laugh. “Yeah, well. Tracy does the divination, generally, she’s got more of a talent for... dramatics.” Anathema started walking toward the door, and Crowley followed along, because he could tell when he was about to overstay his welcome. “I mostly do research and field work.”

Crowley elected not to ask what kind of field work there was for crystalmongers.

“We wanted to ask you and Fell about a visitor we had the other day, but if you don’t run the bookshop with him, you might not know.” She stopped next to a display of what looked like pointy rocks on strings. “Said he was in talks to redevelop this whole block, and that he had ‘a number’” — she added air quotes — “of the other owners on his side. He left a card.”

The object she passed him was small, and heavy, and gilded with scrolly little details. It said exactly what Crowley expected it to. Heavensbridge Development, LLC. Gabriel Gardner, Vice President. That and the standard contact information, all in fancy script lettering that stood out sharp and crisp against the expensive cardstock.

“Oh, I know Gabriel.” Crowley let the card drop back into her hand. “He’s an arsehole.”

Anathema’s eyes lit up in a fierce little grin. “God, he’s the biggest asshole I’ve met since I moved here. You know, he seriously called me ‘dollface’?”

“I’m usually ‘champ’, although sometimes when he’s feeling especially sarcastic I’m ‘winner’. He’s...” And here was a big pile of unpleasant history he didn’t feel like unpacking. “He’s never approved of my life choices. Or, uh, existence.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

Crowley snorted. “Whole fucking novel, yeah. But it’s Aziraphale’s story, I think, since they’re cousins and I’m just, you know, the no-account best mate. Let him tell it to you sometime.”

They were almost to the door now. Time for Crowley to politely be asked to leave, which seemed to be most of his life. Not that he could really expect anything better, after... “Sorry about the vase.”

“The what?” Anathema’s confused frown lifted. “Oh, right. It’s really not a problem, don’t worry. Start calling me ‘dollface’, on the other hand...”

Crowley grimaced, which made her laugh again.

He was about to see himself out, save her the trouble of asking, when she nodded. “You’ve got a nice aura,” she said, eyes going a little unfocused. “Maybe a little worn, but a lot clearer than some I’ve seen lately. I can see why he feels the way he does about you.”

Which was such a conversational tangent that Crowley’s brain gave up with a shrug. “Who?”

“Not too observant, though.” Anathema smiled. “It was nice meeting you, Crowley. I don’t want to kick you out, but if you don’t leave soon then Tracy will invite you to stay for tea, and you need to catch those books.”

“...books.”

Anathema pulled the door open. “Would Aziraphale be okay with us stopping by sometime, do you think? Tracy does really want to talk shop with him.” One eyebrow raised delicately. “And I wouldn’t mind talking shit about Mr Dollface, if you’re up for it.”

“I — dunno I’d even be there,” Crowley mumbled. “‘S not like I _live_ there.”

“Right,” Anathema said, and Crowley honestly couldn’t tell if she was being deadpan or totally sincere. “I keep getting ahead of myself.”

“But, no. I mean yes. He’d like that.” There was a soft little smile trying to surface on his face, but he’d fought it down before more times than he could count. “Just don’t try to buy any of his books, and he’d love to have you both over. And yeah, I know how that sounds. Runs a bookshop, doesn’t he? But that’s just how he is.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

He nodded, stepped back outside. “See you around, maybe.”

“Oh, definitely!” Wide eyes, and this time Crowley thought she really was being sincere. “We still need to have you for tea.”

Which he didn’t really have an answer to, so he just waved and started off. She waved back and let the door close.

He thought the two of them would probably be good people to know. Madame Tracy made him think of some of his classmates’ mums, way back in primary school, the kind who would fuss over their kids in a way that Crowley’s mum never had. He thought he maybe wouldn’t mind being fussed over like that, now and then. And Anathema felt like the kind of person who believed completely in aliens and Atlantis but was also too common-sense to bullshit easily, which didn’t seem like it should be possible, but also seemed like a lot of fun.

They really just wanted to talk to another neighborhood business owner, though. They wanted Aziraphale. Not Crowley.

He glared into the windows of the cafe as he slithered past. Stupid walnut-scone-baking bastards. He could be in there right now buying something tasty for Aziraphale, a sugary coffee-flavored beverage or some fresh pastries or both, if they hadn’t preemptively betrayed his angel like that.

Crowley walked into the bookshop empty-handed, just himself. The usual disappointment. There might be customers somewhere, so he took the silent route to finding Aziraphale, checking down the rows of shelves instead of just yelling and then following the response. Someone had actually _shushed_ him the other day, and then Aziraphale had appeared and started scolding them for their impertinence, and it had really just been a whole thing.

There was a noise just around the next corner. A creak, a sort of scrabbling — a cry in a cultured, beautiful voice —

Crowley rounded the corner at not quite a run. One of the ladders was right there, and Aziraphale was on top of it, pale and fluttering and Crowley reached out —

Two volumes of Tomlinson's Cyclopaedia of Useful Arts slipped from Aziraphale’s arms and tumbled awkwardly into Crowley’s.

“Good Lord!” Aziraphale sounded surprised. Mildly dazed, maybe. Not frightened, though, and not hurt. Thank fuck, he wasn’t hurt.

Crowley shuffled the encyclopedias around a bit. Probably going to have some book-corner-shaped bruises later. “You all right?”

“Perfectly. Just a fool, apparently.” He huffed out a breath. “I thought I’d just nip up to reshelve those, even though I knew this ladder had developed a wobble.”

He shifted, rocking it back and forth in demonstration, and Crowley winced.

“And, well. You see the results.” Aziraphale looked down at him with his pretty eyes going wide. “It was rather incredible, your catching them. Marvelous timing.”

_...and you need to catch those books..._

“Book witch,” Crowley muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Hold on.” He set the volumes aside, then stepped closer to the ladder, steadying it with both hands. “Help you down. Won’t have you falling and hurting yourself.”

Aziraphale smiled indulgently. “Crowley. I’m perfectly capable of...”

He stopped. Maybe noticed that Crowley hadn’t budged, and wasn’t going to. The indulgent smile turned into something softer. “You always were overprotective of me.”

The ladder tried to buck, as he descended, but Crowley held it as still as he could. Didn’t let go until Aziraphale had both feet back on solid ground.

“Thank you.” Still the gentle smile. Sometimes Aziraphale smiled like that, and Crowley felt like he would either live forever or just die on the spot.

“Course.”

Aziraphale tapped a finger against the ladder. “I shall have to repair this before I try it again. Or replace it, I suppose.” When he started to walk away, Crowley followed even before the hopeful look back over one plump shoulder. “One of those modern contraptions designed to hold more weight. Although these old ones served my uncle well enough, and I daresay he had a good three stone on me in his prime.”

“How is he these days?”

“ _Furious_ at how much he’s enjoying cottage living.” Aziraphale giggled, the high sound weaving silver around Crowley’s heart. “He said they should have left the city years ago, and he’ll never forgive my aunt for being absolutely right to suggest it.”

Crowley grinned. “Of course she was. Clever woman, your aunt.”

They’d reached the front counter now. Aziraphale made a couple of marks on his inventory sheet, putting the pencil down and then just staring at it for a moment. The smile he turned to Crowley this time was a brief, flickering thing. “They found each other so young, you know, and I don’t believe they ever once looked back. Nearly fifty years they’ve been together. I always used to hope —”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Just laughed again, although this one wasn’t a sparkling giggle. “Then again, they did have to contend with having unleashed Gabriel on the world. There are downsides to everything, I suppose, even love.”

Crowley had never been the right one. He’d never been able to offer the kind of love Aziraphale would want. Aziraphale liked cultured, unassuming men; he’d only dated once in all the years Crowley had known him, but the guy had made Mister Rogers look tough. An inked-up former delinquent who owned enough leather clothing to reconstruct the cow wouldn’t even be on Aziraphale’s romantic radar.

Crowley knew about finding the right person young, though. Finding him, and never looking back. 

“Fucking Gabriel,” he said, since he couldn’t say what he really wanted to. “You know he’s been paying his visits to your neighbors, too? I ran into the new owners of that occult shop, who’re hoping you’ll stop by, incidentally. They had his card.”

Aziraphale’s eyes sharpened. “How interesting. That does shed some light on our little conversation earlier today.”

“Wh — he was here?” Crowley started prowling around like he might find the arsehole hiding behind a pillar. “Would’ve been here hours ago if I’d known — you shouldn’t have to deal with him alone, nobody should have to face that wanker on their own —”

A soft hand landed on his arm. “Crowley. It’s all right, I promise you.”

Crowley stilled, paying careful attention to how the hand patted gently before withdrawing. Aziraphale was right, of course. He was a grown adult, and he had more experience handling his cousin than maybe anybody else in the world by this point. He didn’t _need_ Crowley to watch out for him. But there were only so many ways Crowley had available to love him, and since holding him close and leaving kisses over every inch of his beautiful fat face was out of the question...

“Okay. Sure.” He buried his empty hands in his pockets. “Conversation. What bullshit did he bring this time?”

“Much the same as ever. The shop is rather a lot to manage by myself; obviously I’d be happier selling out and reopening somewhere less expensive; he’s sure I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of progress, given the potential for this block, if only someone would tear these old rat traps down.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “ _I’m_ sure I don’t know where his supposed mind reading powers come from. Perhaps he learned them at that awful American business school he went to.”

The nettled tone of his voice was so familiar, so adorably _Aziraphale_ that Crowley couldn’t stop a laugh. Aziraphale was neatening the counter, sorting receipts and brushing away invisible dust, but the glance he shot Crowley’s way had an answering smile in it.

“The only unusual thing was some nonsense about how I might start feeling pressure from other quarters. He must have meant the other shop owners.”

Crowley leaned back against the counter next to him. “Well, the occult shop women didn’t seem impressed.”

Aziraphale hummed in response. The counter was apparently to his liking, now, because he turned his back to it too, not quite leaning, nothing like Crowley’s exuberant slouch, but still relaxed. His hands folded themselves quietly over the top of his belly.

“I suppose it would be polite to pay them a visit,” he mused. “Shall we go over later in the week?”

There was a funny little wriggle in Crowley’s chest, which he smashed down with long practice. “Go whenever you want. It’s a, y’know, shopkeep to shopkeep thing. Won’t need me.”

Aziraphale had positioned himself right next to Crowley, maybe six inches away. Maybe less. Now he erased the distance entirely, hand crossing it to rest on Crowley’s shoulder.

“We both know that you’re as much a part of this place as I am by this point.” The hand squeezed lightly. “No, as long as you’re willing, I’d much rather have you by my side.”

Crowley didn’t let himself lean into Aziraphale’s touch. Just stood there and soaked it up as Aziraphale chuckled. As the hand squeezed once more, the thumb stroked gently back and forth, before falling away.

“Besides, there’s more than one of them, yes? Seems I’d be outnumbered without you.”

“Oh, all right, fine,” Crowley said. “If it’s that important to you.”

When Aziraphale smiled at that, Crowley’s heart wriggled again. This time he let it. He smiled back, letting himself feel wanted, just this once. Just for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~[Crowleys need love like everything does](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EUN1ClT9i9w) ~~
> 
> Next time: Back in 2007, two friends meet up at a play.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 2007, Aziraphale and Crowley meet up at a play. Aziraphale is having some complicated feelings about their friendship, and about the dangers it might pose to Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** Use of the word "fat" in a **slightly negative** context, amidst some brief internalized fatphobia/negative self-talk (much less than in chapter 3!). Oblique references to homophobia and the potential for dangerous situations arising from homophobia, but nothing explicit and nobody gets hurt in the text. Some erasure of bisexuality via Aziraphale's internal narration skipping over that being a thing (ilu so much beautiful bi and pan people, and you exist and I see you).

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghost-of-your-past-and-mine-ch-5) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
_2007_

“Secret missives, clandestine meetings.”

The voice might have startled Aziraphale, if he hadn’t been expecting it. Looking forward to it, really. Warm and drawling behind him, with a familiar teasing edge which he couldn’t help but smile at.

“How’d you know I always wanted to be a secret agent?”

Aziraphale forced a more neutral expression a moment before Crowley slid into view, hands behind his back. The park wasn’t overly crowded, this not being one of Shakespeare’s more famous plays, but there were still dozens of people in easy view, any one of whom might... well, assume things. And there was nothing to assume.

“You make it sound so _sinister_.” He glanced at Crowley, wondering yet again when he would give up on that ridiculous little hipster beard. “It’s a lovely day today, and I thought we might enjoy a bit of culture. There’s nothing secretive about it.”

“Sure, sure.” Crowley offered something up to him. “Passed by the ice cream stand on the way here, by the way, got you an... ice... thing. ‘S grape.”

Aziraphale accepted it carefully: a small paper cup, containing a scoop of colorful shaved ice. “Thank you. It looks scrummy.”

Crowley grinned, the expression brief and bright and endearingly lopsided. His sunglasses turned toward the stage as he did so, a small wooden platform on the other side of a few scattered groups, lounging on blankets or in chairs, if they’d brought them. “This isn’t one of Shakespeare’s gloomy ones, is it? Never did like those.”

“It’s one of — of the funny ones.” Aziraphale’s lungs pulled in a breath rather unexpectedly. “ _Measure For Measure_.”

The sunglasses turned slowly back toward him. 

“Is it.”

  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_  
  


Aziraphale nodded. Strange, how his face seemed to grow warm. How when Crowley smiled at him — not a grin but a smile, softening the sharp planes of his face — it became difficult to look at him. The shaved ice was a little easier. It was another of the gifts and tokens Crowley was always bringing him, sweets and bottles of wine and once, a mug with angel’s wings for a handle, which Aziraphale had found horribly tacky, yet which he couldn’t bring himself to throw away. It had stayed in its box for nearly a year before he’d first used it. Now it seldom spent so much as a day on the shelf.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley turn back toward the stage. It had been an open question whether the significance of the play would be understood — whether Crowley would remember their first meeting with the detail that Aziraphale still did. The gentle tone of his reply was all the answer Aziraphale required. That, and the gentle smile that touched his face.

Aziraphale startled a little when Crowley spoke again.

“Isn’t that your entomologist over there?”

He snapped his head up. “Teddy? Where?”

“Over by the bench, with that lot on the striped blanket.”

“Oh no, it’s him, it’s him —”

Aziraphale did not quite hide behind Crowley, not least because he was much too wide to even make the attempt. He was glad the other man was closer to the stage, though, with no reason to look in their direction.

“Spose it makes sense, him being here.” Crowley’s voice was cheerful enough, if rather more full of emphasis than just a few moments ago. “Seeing as you met at one of these things.”

Aziraphale chipped fretfully at his ice. “Yes, at _Hamlet_. You refused to come because you think it’s too ‘gloomy’.”

“And what does your _boyfriend_ think?”

“Wh — he’s not my boyfriend!” A few curious faces turned their way, and Aziraphale flushed. “We went on three dates,” he went on in a mutter, “after which we parted quite amicably. I just didn’t...”

Didn’t _feel_ anything for the man, as lovely as he’d been. As wonderful as it had been to have been asked on those dates to begin with, when no one had ever taken an interest in fat, boring Aziraphale before. Teddy had been kind and funny and a perfect gentleman. But when he’d given Aziraphale his very first kiss at the end of their second date, it had just seemed more bother than anything else.

“I just _didn’t_. And we haven’t spoken since.”

That seemed to amuse Crowley for some reason. His lips curled upward for the briefest of instants. “Not your boyfriend, then. My mistake. Shall we get on with watching the play?” 

Aziraphale allowed himself a small _hmph_. They both kept silence for a while, other than the occasional laugh from one or both of them, or the quiet crunching of shaved ice.

“They’re very good, aren’t they?” Aziraphale gestured to the stage. “The — the company.”

One eyebrow hoisted itself skywards. “Fishing for compliments? The company’s always good when I’m with you. Should know that by now.” Then, with a smirk: “‘Age does not wither, nor custom stale your infinite variety’. That’s the line, yeah?”

“More or less.”

Aziraphale busied himself with another bit of purple ice, spooning it neatly into his mouth. It would save him having to say anything else. He wasn’t sure quite what else he might have to say.

Lately Crowley was... well, not different. Really, he was exactly the same. The way he slipped behind Aziraphale, now, coming out on his other side for a few moments before pacing back again — nothing new there. He teased Aziraphale the same as ever (and when Aziraphale felt of a mind to tease him, Crowley took it with the same nettled good humor). He looked the same, artfully disheveled red hair and coiling tattoo and eyes which were honeyed brown, behind the dark glasses. The scrubby little beard did little to disguise the handsome line of his jaw.

Crowley was extremely handsome. There was nothing unusual about this. Aziraphale wasn’t used to _noticing_ it, though. It was a simple fact — he was attractive, because his features were organized in a way which Aziraphale understood to be attractive. He was slender and graceful and a number of other things which Aziraphale was not. It made them an odd-looking set of friends, but Crowley had never seemed to care. 

Aziraphale had never cared either, mostly. His best friend was really remarkably pleasing to the eye, in addition to being a delightful individual. It wasn’t as though it mattered.

Crowley finished yet another circuit of him, pausing next to him to watch the play for a minute or so before beginning again.

“What do you _want?_ ” Aziraphale asked, more sharply than he’d meant. 

“Me?” Crowley’s tone was almost suspiciously innocent. “Don’t want anything. Whyever would you insinuate that I might possibly want something?”

“I just — I can’t tell what you’re up to back there.”

“Not up to anything,” Crowley answered. He stopped, though, taking up his favored place at Aziraphale’s left, hands tucked loosely into his pockets. 

Aziraphale tried not to notice how close their arms were to touching. It was the old worry about assumptions, of course. Schoolyard bullies had been able to tell the tendencies of his heart even before he had, and he’d already heard every slight there was by the time of his first crush (a kind-hearted classmate who never realized how Aziraphale adored him) at age sixteen. Crowley had never spoken of his own love life, but he certainly didn’t scream “gay” with his every word and act. And he’d been flirted with by dozens of women over the years, without ever reacting the way Aziraphale fancied he would if some young lady ever came up to _him_.

Simply being too friendly to Aziraphale in public might be dangerous to Crowley, if it gave others the wrong idea. Aziraphale wished Crowley could understand that.

“So,” he said to the ice. “What do you think of the new job, now that you’re a full week into it?”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s — yeah, it’s okay. Got me doing the shit work because I’m the new guy. No rest for the wicked, I guess —”

“You’re hardly _wicked_ , Crowley.”

One dark boot scuffed at the ground for a moment before Crowley seemed to find the rest of his thought. “Fine. No rest for the me. So it’s tough, but it’s...”

“Honest,” Aziraphale suggested, before realizing how judgemental that was.

Crowley laughed, though. The sound was a little sour, but not without humor. “Honest work at last. Twenty-six years old and I’m finally done being a stupid kid.”

The words bit themselves off before Aziraphale could stop them. “I’m still hoping to be lucky enough to eventually spend my life under Gabriel’s shadow at twenty-eight. One of us may be stupid, but it isn’t you.”

“Hey.” Crowley stepped even closer, hand coming up to touch Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Hey, no, angel —”

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” Aziraphale hissed, because the way he was beginning to love the nickname was less important than Crowley’s safety. “Not in public like this.”

Crowley’s mouth tightened. “What I call my best mate’s between me and him. I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

“But if the wrong person heard you, they might not stop at just words.” Something in his chest turned over uneasily, making his suddenly-damp hands shake. “They might — might hurt you, might...”

He couldn’t say the rest. It brought up ideas too horrid to bear, of pale brown eyes closed forever. Of no warm voice to call him “angel”, in public or no.

“Idiot,” Crowley said, nothing at all like how he’d called himself stupid a moment ago. “They’re the ones who should be afraid of me. Anyone who tries to hurt you’ll have one very angry career hoodlum to deal with.”

He turned his head, then. Looked behind them both, first to one side and then the other.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said.

“You get used to watching your back around Hastur and Ligur.” Crowley’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, now, his shoulders a tense line. “Watching someone else’s is easy. Even easier when it’s you.”

“...oh,” Aziraphale said.

He went to scoop up another mouthful of ice, just to have something to occupy himself with, but the spoon scraped against the bottom of the paper cup. He’d finished it without realizing.

“All right,” Crowley sighed, but his slim hand was gentle as it took back the empty cup. “What flavor this time?”

Aziraphale perked up a bit. “Do they have orange?”

“Do they ha — _yes_ , they have orange, ridiculous angel. Back in a mo.” Crowley started off across the grass, then looked back over his shoulder. “Don’t leave,” he added, as though Aziraphale would ever do anything of the sort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: In the present, Crowley hears rumblings of a big job from Ligur, then spends a lovely day with Aziraphale.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, Crowley hears rumblings of a big job from Ligur, then spends a lovely day with Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** none?

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghosts-of-your-past-and-mine-ch-6) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
_2020_

Crowley woke to the sounds of traffic, far down on the street. Saturday. Nowhere to be that he didn’t want to be. He stretched, smiling lazily, rolling over toward the other side of the bed. “Morning, ang —”

The wall greeted him, blank and gray and not soft at all.

The dream again. The one where Aziraphale loved him. Where they fell asleep together every night, woke up together every morning. Where he gathered Aziraphale up in his arms, the whole glorious roundness of him, feeling tender kisses rain down on his cheeks and nose and forehead.

“Angel,” he whispered to the emptiness. He scrubbed his face with both palms, then got out of bed with the lazy smile nowhere to be found.

By the time he’d had coffee and toast, the ache in his chest was quiet again. The morning was for gardening, he decided. Quick change into old denim cutoffs, into a worn-ragged shirt. He had a large and floppy sunhat which Aziraphale had given him as a gift a few years back, and which he had made a big deal about the tackiness of before carting it home and putting it carefully with all his other gardening kit. There was dirt ground into the straw that would never come out by this point. The tartan ribbon was faded from hours of bright summer sun. He’d wear the damn thing till it fell apart, though. It was Aziraphale, wanting him to not bake his fool brains. Caring about him.

The community garden was busy, and full of volunteers whose shift it actually was, but Crowley had been dropping in whenever he felt like it for nearly a decade now. Sometimes he just needed to get his hands in the soil, feel the sun on his back. Wipe sweat away from his forehead with the back of one grimy glove and feel like he’d made a difference, for once. A positive one.

Also, the other volunteers weren’t nearly ruthless enough with the pruning. Coddling the hedges, they were. And he could always tell when that sweet older woman and her lady friend had done a turn, because the roses got downright _insolent_.

A couple hours in the sun, a nice brisk walk home, a shower — all good things. When his phone rang, he actually took the time to breathe, and think, and question whether he really wanted to talk to Ligur.

It’d be okay, he decided. He could just say no.

“Hey.”

“Crowley.” Ligur sounded cheerful, anyway. This wouldn’t be one of those calls where he started off already annoyed and Crowley couldn’t figure out why. “How have you been?”

“Getting by,” he said, avoiding a real answer. “You?”

“Excellent. Irons in the fire, if you take my meaning.”

Petty grift and the occasional shakedown-for-hire. Little light trafficking in stolen goods on the side. Crowley took his meaning. “Glad to hear you’re keeping busy.”

Ligur’s voice dropped to a low murmur. “That’s actually the reason I’m calling. I’ve got an opportunity that might have a place for you, if you’re interested.”

It was never anything honest. Even that time Crowley let himself be talked into waitering at some fancy party, there was still an angle. Ligur’d wanted to scope the place for security. The expected guard dog hadn’t actually materialized, but Crowley had lied and said yep, it was there, a proper hellhound, and the burglary plans had been scrapped.

“What, uh. What sort of opportunity?”

“Big,” Ligur answered. “I’m not really at liberty to say more yet.”

Crowley made a neutral sound.

“We’ve had our differences over the years. And I know Hastur can be... well, Hastur.” Ligur’s voice was smooth, friendly. Crowley had watched him use this same voice on women in dozens of bars and clubs over the years, and it worked pretty often on them, probably because they didn’t know how little there was behind the easy patter. “But we had a good lurk at the Churchyard, didn’t we? Like old times.”

This time Crowley didn’t make any sound at all.

“This client is paying a lot of money for a job out there in London. More than it’s worth, if you ask me, but there’s an interest in it getting done quickly. Possibly with some of Hastur’s... unique craftsmanship.”

Fire. Torching another building for the insurance money, or to send a message, or... whatever it was the “client” wanted done without having to dirty their own hands.

“There’s room for you in it. We’d be glad to cut you in.” Ligur sounded almost warm. “For old times’ sake.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes closed. He could say no. Of course he could. The old gang didn’t have any real hold on him anymore. Things had been strained between them for years, even before the thing with the hospital, and they all knew what kind of contempt the others held him in. They thought he’d been living in London too long, gone straight and enjoying it far too much. Following the law even when he didn’t need to.

And if he turned down this thorn-wrapped olive branch, that was fine. He’d still have one friend left in the world. His _best_ friend, who probably wouldn’t get sick of him if he started hanging around the bookshop even more than he already did.

Crowley flexed his fingers against the phone. “You know, listen, it... i — it really isn’t my scene...”

“Your scene,” Ligur said. “Your starring role. If you want to take it.” A deep chuckle. “Old times are very important — old friends are very important. But times change. Don’t they, Crowley?”

“They can,” Crowley mumbled.

Ligur left vaguely sinister behind and went back to friendly. “Think of it as an opportunity. I’ve a few associates who would give their right arm to be you right now.”

“That big a payout, then?”

“Oh yes. And the potential for future business. Seems like the client sees a few different obstacles between himself and a glorious destiny.”

“Glorious,” Crowley said. “Yeah. Look, uh — let, let me think about it, whether I can, um.”

“I’ll ring you Wednesday,” Ligur said.

“Great. Fine. Yeah.” Crowley grimaced. “Ciao.”

Fuck. Well, at least he hadn’t said yes.

How had he felt when he’d woken up? Saturday, nowhere to be that he didn’t want to be? Miles from that, now. He knew where he wanted to be, though. Same place he always wanted to be.

His phone was already in his hand. Five seconds later, the simulated ring of a distant line was replaced with a delicately precise voice.

“A.Z. Fell and company, how may I help you?”

Crowley closed his eyes and smiled. “By letting me buy you lunch. Anywhere you like, my treat.”

“Why yes, I do believe we have that in stock.” There was an answering smile in Aziraphale’s voice, and Crowley could imagine it easily. Round cheeks dimpling as the soft lips curved upward. Wrinkles around the eyes deepening, reminders of a thousand smiles before, and now a thousand and one. Those eyes would be full of mischief as he went on. “You may wish to hurry, though. I can’t guarantee some other customer won’t snatch it up.”

Crowley scoffed. “What, not even going to let me put a hold on it? What kind of a bookshop is this?”

“Oh, a very exclusive one. Actually, to be honest, there are no other customers. I can’t trust them with anything,” he added in a stage whisper. “I would find everything misshelved and with the pages dog-eared. No respect for the classics, you know.”

“Yeah, uh, totally lost track of the metaphor here. So lunch?”

Now the voice just sounded fond. “Ethiopian, I think. And _please_ do drive carefully for once. It isn’t as though the bookshop is going anywhere.”

Something wobbled in Crowley’s chest, and he hoped it wasn’t audible. “Never know when you’ll get tired of me. Gotta seize the moment while I can, yeah?”

“No. No, you really don’t.”

On the other side of the connection, a soft body heaved in a sigh.

“I shall never be tired of you, Crowley. Not so long as I live.”

Silence. Crowley cleared his throat. “Well, uh. ‘S good, then. Since I won’t — won’t get tired of you.”

He could almost see Aziraphale, standing by his antique phone, the one he insisted on keeping even though it couldn’t dial out since the local exchange had dropped pulse dialing. Not that there was any reason Aziraphale had to have picked up on that one — he had the modern equivalent hooked up in his office — except Crowley couldn’t imagine him any other way. No, he’d be standing in his old-fashioned shop, wearing his old-fashioned clothes and talking on his ridiculously old-fashioned monstrosity of a rotary phone. Why there was any room for Crowley in his life was a mystery. Didn’t match the theme at all.

“Please drive carefully,” Aziraphale repeated softly. “I’ll see you soon, then?”

“Yeah.” _I love you_ bubbled up in his throat for the thousandth, the ten-thousandth time. “Bye, angel.”

Crowley pretended, on the way over, that he was Aziraphale’s. He didn’t race any amber lights, sped only as much as everyone else was doing, and yielded the right of way twice. Nice and safe. Anything belonging to Aziraphale was precious, and that would even include Crowley, if — well. If.

The Closed sign was up. Next to it was a hand-lettered card, expressing the proprietor’s deep regret at having to cease dealing with the assorted riffraff of the book-browsing public for a few hours in order to suffer the fate of a scrumptious lunch. The proprietor was apparently so distraught at this fate that he might not reopen until tomorrow.

The door was locked, but Crowley’s knock was as good as a key.

“Oh, splendid.” Aziraphale opened the door just enough to slip out. “The phone was just starting to ring again, but it obviously can’t have been anyone important, if you’re here. Shall we, then?”

Crowley made a little gesture, a half-ironic thing, one of his hands hovering behind Aziraphale’s back as the other waved to the pavement ahead. Simplest thing in the world, to touch instead of just hover. To let his hand rest against the back of Aziraphale’s waistcoat — this one was pale tan, sort of a rough weave, and he’d love to feel it, with the warm shape of Aziraphale beneath. Love to slide a hand over it, tracing the breadth of Aziraphale’s waist, snugging that hand against the far side of him and pulling him close —

What a scene that’d be. Crowley hadn’t seen Aziraphale really angry more than a handful of times over the years, but it wasn’t the kind of experience you forgot. He got firm, an edge to his voice like a blade of fire. He stared his target down with the utter righteousness of a holy paladin. He _blazed_. And he was terrifyingly beautiful, when he did. Like something not quite of this earth, something you had to break your mind a little to witness. The afternoon crowds around them would see all of that if Crowley were to give in to what his arms wanted.

He let his arms fall, though, still empty.

“Nice day,” he said to the sky as they walked. “Not too cold. Maybe take a stroll around the park after lunch, if you’re not too busy.”

Aziraphale made a disapproving little noise. “You know I’m going to answer the same way every time you say something like that, Crowley. I will never be too busy for you.”

Crowley’s heart stuttered quietly. “Maybe I. I like making you repeat yourself.”

“Well. To reiterate, then: you are critically important to me.” Aziraphale’s eyes held his through the sunglasses for a second. “And I shall always have time for you.”

The Bentley was parked just on the other side of the intersection. Crowley slouched on nothing, trying to force the signal green by force of will.

Aziraphale folded his hands over his belly. “Now, we are going to have lunch together, and it’s going to be lovely. After that we are going on a walk, and that will be lovely too.” A little sideways glance. “I happen to have just gotten in a few bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and I am very hopeful that you will want to sample one with me.”

“Oh,” Crowley said.

“I can’t say yet whether _it_ will be lovely, but...”

“But we can find that out together.”

Aziraphale beamed at him like he’d just offered up some amazing gift. “Precisely.”

Crowley got them to the restaurant in one piece, whatever Aziraphale might have to say about his driving. It _was_ a lovely time. So was the walk in the lengthening afternoon sun, and the drive back to Aziraphale’s home, and the hours of conversation that went along with the wine.

“Angel,” Crowley said at one point, when they were midway through the second bottle.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale replied, extremely seriously, as if his cheeks weren’t pink from tipsiness, as if he hadn’t just been giggling about ducks. He giggled again now. “You know, it isn’t fair. You get to call me a nickname, but I don’t get to call you one.”

Crowley usually held his liquor about as well as Aziraphale, even as skinny as he was. He’d been pleasantly fuzzy too, but it’d been fading for a bit by now. “Could give me one any time you wanted. Wouldn’t mind.”

“There aren’t any _good_ ones.” Aziraphale had a few different expressions that could be considered a pout. This was the one where he didn’t want anything from Crowley, specifically, although he wouldn’t say no if Crowley offered. “I lo... it’s so nice, when you call me...”

Crowley said it quieter this time. “‘Angel’.”

Aziraphale smiled, eyes drifting shut. His round shoulders wriggled him even deeper into his chair. “Yes. Just like that.”

“Well, it... you could call me anything.” Crowley stared into his glass and wished he felt like drinking more. “Call me ‘cabbage’ if you want. Doesn’t matter if it’s — if it’s you.”

“Chouquette,” said Aziraphale. “How darling. I could call you a small cabbage and no one would know. They’d think it was sweet instead of absurd.”

Crowley supposed it was absurd. Him, being happy to be a small cabbage if it meant he was _Aziraphale’s_ small cabbage. “‘Sweet’ isn’t really my thing, anyway.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, drawing in a breath, like he might say something. He let it out silently, though. Resumed his neat posture.

“I could beg to differ,” he said at last. “But... no. It isn’t the right name for you, regardless. I’ll have to give it more thought.” Soft eyes met Crowley’s, dark as forever in the dim light. “Something that properly describes what you mean to me.”

Which had to be the wine talking. Crowley had never seen Aziraphale drink past the point of gently tipsy, where he laughed a little easier, slouched an inch or two. The flush on his cheeks wasn’t even as dark now as it’d been earlier in the evening — probably someone who hadn’t spent thousands of hours gazing at his pretty face wouldn’t have noticed it at all. Aziraphale didn’t drink to the point of alcohol-fueled nonsense. Never had.

Crowley didn’t mean anything to him, though. Not — not in the way that warranted soft eyes, or a gentle tone of voice, or being just a step or two removed from calling Crowley _sweet_. Not like what he meant to Crowley.

Aziraphale wasn’t in love with him. That would have happened already if it was ever going to.

Crowley waved a hand, casually. “Getting sentimental on me, you are. Have you crying over how adorable puppies are next.”

Somehow Aziraphale’s eyes went even softer. He smiled, quiet and almost shy, and his cheeks went so round that it should’ve been illegal to not kiss them. “I seem to recall that that was you.”

“Anyway! New, uh, new topic. How ‘bout that new teahouse over in Mayfair...?”

Eventually Crowley couldn’t stop yawning, no matter how much he tried to hide it, to put off the inevitable moment he’d have to leave. He glanced toward the door, wishing it was a few thousand miles farther away. Aziraphale was frowning when he looked back.

“I don’t want you to leave.” The words tumbled out quickly, and Aziraphale obviously realized his mistake because his pudgy hand fluttered up to cover his mouth. “You’re — oh, you’re so tired, and for you to drive home like this —”

Crowley rubbed his eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t have spent that time out in the sun this morning. Blew the cobwebs out a little, sure, but it did have him nodding off now. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Not that long of a drive. Can text you when I get there.”

He yawned again, though, hard enough to raise an interesting cracking noise. “Or I could sleep on the sofa,” he admitted.

“Yes, please.” Aziraphale clapped his hands together softly, beaming as though Crowley had done him a favor. “I do so hate to impose, but if you would be willing...” And here was another one of his pouts, this one much more direct. Head tilting, eyes pleading, corners of the mouth trembling downward for just a blink...

“Yes, all right,” Crowley muttered, flopping over with a groan. He drew his long legs up onto the sofa, stocking feet finding purchase against the far armrest. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

The pout vanished. “Oh, it will. You know how I worry, and when you’re here, well —” He stopped, eyes flickering down. “Well, then I don’t have to worry. I can know that you’re safe.”

Crowley buried his face in his own folded arms to hide the way it was warming. “Sure.”

He wriggled around a little, getting comfortable, not even realizing Aziraphale was on the move until a soft hand touched his shoulder.

“Do lift your head, that’s a dear —”

A pillow slid beneath his cheek, cool and sweet-smelling. Like lavender.

Crowley burrowed into it, as a blanket settled over him. The sofa was cozy, and the blanket was warm, and the pillow was soft in his arms, like Aziraphale would be. He breathed in slow and let it back out in a mumble without even thinking what he was doing. “Love you so much, angel.”

There was a chuckle above him. “I didn’t catch a word of that. No matter. You can tell me in the morning.”

“I said.” Crowley cracked one eye to glare up at him. “Said this blanket better not be tartan.”

The grin which lit up Aziraphale’s face told him all he needed to know.

“Hate you,” he said. He nuzzled back into the pillow, already drifting off again. Not so far, though, that he didn’t feel the blanket being tucked snug up to his neck.

“You don’t,” laughed a gentle voice. Something brushed over his cheek. “Sleep well, Crowley.”

  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Back in 2012, some uninvited visitors drop by the newly-reopening bookshop.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 2012, several people drop by the newly-reopening bookshop. One is very much invited, always, he really needn't even ask; the other two are very much _not_. One of them has some rather cruel things to say to Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** Use of the word "fat" in a slightly-negative-to-neutral context, amidst what could be interpreted as brief internalized fatphobia, _and some actual fatphobia from another character_. There are **actual fatphobic comments in the text** , which I am bolding because this is very rare for me. I believe them to be mild, and they are coming from someone who the narrative has placed a big ol' "Wrongity Wrong Wrong" sign on, but they're still there, so please be careful.
> 
> Also, cw: Gabriel.
> 
> Finally, some erasure of pan/bisexuality via Aziraphale's internal narration skipping over that being a thing. He's going to stop doing that, beautiful pan and bi people, I promise, but -- not yet.

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghost-of-your-past-and-mine-ch-7) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
_2012_

Aziraphale supposed it was foolish, but he couldn’t help a little thrill of pride as the last sign was painted over. Francis Gardner Rare Books And Antiquities had been a Soho fixture for the better part of a century; Uncle Francis had been a Junior, and his father had run the shop for over forty years before handing it down. Francis Junior had a son of his own, one who had gone all the way to America to study business, and who had known all his life that this was his birthright.

The name on the new sign wasn’t Gabriel Gardner, though. It was A.Z. Fell.

He stepped back through the door into the familiar atmosphere of the shop: warm light filtering through the windows, motes of dust twinkling in the air, and of course the smell of old books. 

He’d been working here for fifteen years. There was nothing noteworthy about picking up a leather-bound book from a table and slotting it into its proper place on the shelf. Except it was noteworthy, extraordinarily so, because it was _his_ book now. The shelf was _his_ shelf. He could reorganize the entire place, if he wanted — put the herbariums where the atlases were, shift the mysteries to mingle with the cookbooks, put the Regency novels under glass just because he could...

He bounced on his toes. “Splendid,” he said to the empty shop, “oh, _splendid_.”

When the door jangled open some time later, his first thought was that the painter must be done. The Closed sign was in place, so even though he hadn’t actually locked up on his way in, any reasonable person would just walk on by without trying to —

“Oi, someone come sell me a book!”

Ah.

A very unreasonable person came ambling into view, carrying something in one hand. His eyebrows shot upward, above his dark glasses, and his mouth curled into a wide grin.

“D’you have this book I saw once? Think it was green. Maybe orange. Definitely had an H in the title.”

“Do you know, I never have to put up with that nonsense again?” Aziraphale reached out to pat the nearest book, beaming at it. “I can just — just throw someone out if they irritate me. Whenever I like!”

Crowley barked a laugh. “See, that’s why I keep coming round, is the customer service. Second to none. As in, I’d be better off with none.”

Aziraphale briefly entertained the thought of making his very first throwing-out right here. Oh, he’d let Crowley back in immediately, of course, because he wasn’t _really_ being irritating. But it would be amusing all the same.

Crowley relented first, though, leaning against the shelf, grin easing into a smile. “Here,” he said. “Little, you know, shopwarming gift.”

He reached into the package he carried and presented its contents. A flat box, wrapped in silver foil, tied with a delicate bow.

“Chocolates,” he said, unnecessarily.

Aziraphale’s breath seemed to skip for a moment, but it righted itself easily enough. “They’re lovely, Crowley, thank you.” He accepted the box, looking down at it, finding the embossed patterns of the foil to be very interesting. “We’ll have to enjoy them together later — if you’re able to hang about until lunch, perhaps —”

“Should be for _you_ ,” Crowley grumbled, and when Aziraphale looked up, his thin face held a familiar look of fond exasperation. “I got them for you.”

The name on the box was that of Aziraphale’s favorite chocolatier. He couldn’t often justify the expense for himself, but here the chocolates were, now, offered freely by his best friend in all the world.

He smiled down at the box. “Well. Please tell me you’ll at least join me for lunch —”

The bell above the door rang out again.

Aziraphale could hear two sets of footsteps, which meant it wasn’t the painter. How perfectly annoying, when he was just trying to have a simple conversation with a friend. “I’m afraid the shop is closed today,” he called toward the sound. “However, we will be having a grand re-opening —”

“We aren’t here to buy books, Aziraphale.”

Even if Aziraphale hadn’t recognized the voice immediately, he wouldn’t have needed to guess at its owner for long. Gabriel strode around a corner immediately, one of his associates trailing a step or two behind.

Aziraphale had been mistaken for Uncle Francis’s son many times over the years; Gabriel looked only a little like either of them. Something in his strong chin and vibrant eyes recalled his mother instead. He was tall and broad-shouldered, exuding confidence in a way Aziraphale had envied, when they were younger, and which seemed more and more like mere tiresome bluster as time went on. He’d picked up the edge of an American accent during his time studying abroad, and never lost it. It actually seemed to increase when the bluster was worst.

His... assistant? coworker? was an average-looking fellow. Gabriel was the front man, the glib talk and hearty charm. Sandalphon seldom said much, but his presence always made these interactions a little more uncomfortable.

“Gentlemen.” Aziraphale’s hands worried briefly at the chocolate box. “If this is about the same business as the conversation we had the other day, Gabriel...”

Which was a polite way of phrasing it. _Conversation_. More a sermon, with Aziraphale the unwilling congregation.

Gabriel waved a hand, making a face as though he found the very idea preposterous. “No, no. I wanted to congratulate you! We both did, right, Sandalphon?”

“Congratulations,” Sandalphon said flatly.

Aziraphale attempted a smile, although it didn’t feel like it had quite hit the mark. “How lovely.”

“You’ve earned it, sunshine.”

Gabriel was close enough to clap one hand on his shoulder, hard enough that it might have sent a slighter man reeling. Even if Aziraphale did keep his feet, it was harder to keep his wits. They were both well into their thirties, but somehow dealing with the man felt like childhood all over again, the extended family all together for Christmas or a grandparent’s birthday and poor fat little Azzie the continual victim of his cousin’s pointed good humor.

There was a sound behind him, though, and somehow that grounded him. Little Azzie wasn’t here. _Aziraphale_ was, and he still looked the short, fat, drab shadow of his cousin, perhaps more than ever as he crept toward an ever drabber middle age. He had a few things Azzie hadn’t, though. Nor Gabriel, now.

  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_  
  


One was the shop. His own shop, his own _business_ , and one he was ready to take on, without anything so ostentatious as Gabriel’s prestigious degree. Uncle Francis, he’d realized embarrassingly late, had been grooming him as his successor for years.

Even dearer than the shop was the source of the sound behind him. Gabriel had his work associates, and he presumably had friends. But did he have a friend half so faithful, so treasured as Crowley? Aziraphale rather thought not.

Crowley had made a noise in his throat, when Gabriel’s hand collided with Aziraphale’s shoulder. A sort of pained sound, as though he’d felt it himself, although when he spoke it came out almost as a growl. “Course he’s earned it.” He flowed around to slouch at Aziraphale’s side. “Stupid thing to say, that he’s earned it. Worked here long enough. Worked _hard_ enough.”

Gabriel flashed a hard-edged grin. “Yes, I’m sure he works very hard. Not one for indulgences, our Aziraphale.”

He looked down as he said it, at Aziraphale’s hands, still clutching the chocolates in front of his belly. His large belly, round and full, and oh, there was a rather obvious way to interpret that statement about _indulgences_ , wasn’t there?

Crowley jittered a half-step forward, tense from his stalking legs to his lowering brow. He opened his mouth, probably to say something very ill-advised —

“Thank you both for the — the kind words. I can assure you, they are very much appreciated.” Aziraphale glanced at Sandalphon’s inscrutable smile, then turned back to Gabriel. “May I help you with anything else?”

Gabriel laughed easily. “There you go! Good client-centric attitude. I’m sure you’ll have no problems with your little endeavor at all.”

“A natural,” Sandalphon said.

“Still, running a business is more than just chatting with the customers.” Gabriel raised his hands, rocking back on his heels with a pacifying expression. “I know, I know. Dad showed you the ropes, so you’re not _completely_ in the dark. I have every confidence in you!”

The foil around the chocolate box crinkled slightly in Aziraphale’s restless grip. “I do — do think I’ll be able to make a go of it, yes.”

“And if you can’t, well. There’s certainly no shame in that.”

Sandalphon nodded gravely. “Businesses fail every day, after all.”

“They do! So you see, Aziraphale, no one would see it as _your_ failure.”

Aziraphale did not quite tremble, although it still took an effort to meet Gabriel’s eyes. He wasn’t a child anymore, blast it all. He had his uncle’s faith in his abilities, and Crowley’s bristling presence by his side. This was his _home_. To let Gabriel treat him thus in his home —

“And if things do, well. Prove a little beyond your abilities —” Gabriel exchanged a knowing look with Sandalphon. “I’m here for you. We’re family, right?”

Aziraphale could feel that smug grin trying to wear him down once again. “So we are.”

“Any time you want to throw in the towel, let me know. This is an excellent location. Whatever Heavensbridge decides to replace it with, it’ll obviously do better than this rattrap ever could.”

“The bookshop?” Aziraphale straightened. He handed the chocolates off to a startled-looking Crowley, the better to focus on Gabriel. “ _My_ bookshop?”

Gabriel scoffed. “You could buy yourself three new bookshops if you’d take my offer.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t rather have this place torn to the ground.” Sandalphon’s flat eyes skated around the shop floor, the shelves and the books and the pillars which had supported the ceiling since long before the Gardners had bought the space. “Replaced with a nice modern building. Some upmarket flats.”

“Aziraphale has been working here for, what, fifteen years? We must allow for a little attachment.” Gabriel spread his hands wide. “But I can’t promise head office will be this generous forever, even with me in your corner like this. You’re going to have to be the bigger man here eventually — which, hey! Should be easy for you.”

Aziraphale barely had time to blink. Good Lord, had — had his absolute _buffoon_ of a cousin just told a _fat joke_ —

“Right. Right, you made your point.”

Crowley had been all thrumming silence, there by Aziraphale’s left. Now he spoke. His delicate fingers set the chocolates onto the counter before bunching into a loose fist — both his hands were like that, stiff at his sides, his long angles sharp and seething. 

“You congratulated him. Well done, that. Seems you could maybe be someplace else now. Don’t you think there’s a bridge somewhere you could be squatting under?”

Silence edged up closely around them, leaving hardly enough room to draw breath.

Gabriel broke it first. He made a disbelieving sound, glancing around as if expecting someone else to arrive and address the situation. “Hey there, champ. I’m not sure I remember asking for Aziraphale’s idiot boytoy to be a part of this conversation.”

His eyes narrowed, as he spoke, as he looked Crowley over, and now it was Aziraphale’s turn to seethe. No one deserved to be spoken to with such contempt, but for Gabriel to do so to _Crowley_...

Then the last sentence registered, and it was odd, how everything fell away to a blistering calm.

Aziraphale’s hands folded themselves, still and peaceful, against his stomach. “Crowley has been here nearly as long as I have. He’s certainly welcome in any conversations about the shop or its future that he cares to join.”

He could hear his own voice growing not louder, but more forceful. That cold calm was filling him down to his toes.

Gabriel opened his mouth for more nonsense, and for perhaps the first time in their long history, Aziraphale interrupted him.

“He has _been here_ , and you have not. And he’s far more witty and clever and _brilliant_ than you could ever hope to be.”

Gabriel smirked. “You almost sound like you respect him.”

Even standing as firm and straight as he was now, Aziraphale was shorter than his cousin. He still felt rather as though he were looking down on Gabriel now. He glanced over at Crowley (handsome and charming, yes, but never a _boytoy_ ; looking rather dazed just now, but never an _idiot_ ). Only a quick glance, so that he could place one hand on his shoulder, in a gesture absolutely nothing like when Gabriel had thumped him earlier.

“Of course I do.” Aziraphale glared at him, at both the interlopers. Sandalphon took a step back. “It’s you I don’t respect, Gabriel. Get out of my shop.”

“Aziraphale, be reasonable —”

“You know, I really think I have been.” He nodded toward the door. “Out.”

He hadn’t shouted. He rarely shouted; it happened when he was upset, truly upset, and couldn’t seem to make himself understood no matter what he tried. This anger was quiet but deep, and it had no trouble being understood at all.

Crowley deserved better than this. _Aziraphale_ deserved better than this.

When Gabriel glanced at his watch, it was as good as a white flag. “Look, I can see we came at a bad time. I’ve got to run — strategic planning session to prep for — so let’s table this for now.”

Aziraphale raised his chin. “You may ‘table it’ forever, as far as I’m concerned.”

“You’ll have our formal offer to buy in the mail before the end of the week.” Gabriel smiled, broad and empty. “Thanks for your time, big guy. We’re all busy as hell, right?”

He turned and strode back out.

“Have a nice day,” Sandalphon said, smiling even less convincingly than Gabriel.

When the door shut behind them, Aziraphale realized his hand was still on Crowley’s shoulder. He could feel the stiff way Crowley was holding himself, even now that their unwanted guests had departed; well, and no surprise, when all that had been such an ordeal. Aziraphale didn’t understand why he didn’t feel more tense himself. Instead he felt calm. This wasn’t the burning, dangerous calm of the past few minutes, though, but something peaceful and light, like a well-aired-out room.

He gave Crowley’s shoulder a pat before letting go. “Really,” he said, clasping his hands behind himself, and giving his head one firmly satisfied nod. “There was no need for that kind of rudeness from either of them.”

“I, uh,” Crowley replied, after an odd silence. “Spose there wasn’t.”

Aziraphale turned to look at him properly for the first time since they’d been interrupted. He was... well, at least pointed towards Aziraphale, although whether he was actually looking back was somewhat uncertain due to the sunglasses. They had been friends for a long time now, though. Aziraphale was slowly learning, from experience and from cues in the rest of Crowley’s expression, how to sometimes guess where those golden-brown eyes were focused. Just now they seemed focused on him.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale studied the slight rise to the eyebrows above the lenses, and the particular curve of slender cheek beneath. The faintest touch of color on those cheeks, the lips that hung parted, just a little — although now Crowley’s mouth snapped closed, perhaps in response to Aziraphale’s scrutiny. “All you quite all right, dear fellow?”

The eyebrows above Crowley’s glasses raised another notch for an instant. “Me? Of course. Great. Just, uh, just beautiful.” Now he looked faintly panicked. “I mean, great!”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley looked down at the floor, hands thrust deeply enough into his pockets that Aziraphale half-wondered they didn’t tear right through the bottoms. “Was, uh, pretty impressive. You, just now.”

The last few minutes flashed through Aziraphale’s mind again — him, speaking like that, to _Gabriel_ of all people — and he was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to apologize. He’d made such a spectacle of himself, probably embarrassed Crowley half to death...

The dark glasses rose toward him again. “Thanks,” Crowley said quietly. His mouth formed a half-smile. “Guess I’m under your protection too, long as I’m here. Still the guardian angel.”

Aziraphale smiled himself, feeling unaccountably shy. Some interesting books on a nearby shelf caught his attention. “We’re _friends_ , Crowley. I won’t stand to hear you called —” He glanced at Crowley again, that pleasing face open, now, as open as it ever got with the sunglasses on. Glanced away, fighting a sudden warmth in his own face, because Gabriel’s words did have implications, wholly unfounded of course, but — “You will be treated well so long as I have any say in the matter. I’m... accustomed to those sorts of comments. But it isn’t right for you to be damned by association.”

Crowley’s brows furrowed at first, head tilted, and Aziraphale feared he’d have to explain. That explanation would be simple enough, but somehow the sentence _I’m so remarkably gay that no one can see past it to **your** orientation_ wasn’t one he really cared to utter.

The look cleared, though. “‘S a lot I could be ‘damned’ for. Don’t think associating with you’s on the list.” His mouth and eyebrows formed a fierce little grin. “And I’d rather be damned with you than saved with _Hastur_.”

When Aziraphale laughed — he couldn’t help it, not after he’d pictured the odd-looking fellow from photos Crowley had shown in a white robe and halo — Crowley didn’t join in right away. There was a moment where his face seemed to soften again, mouth opening as though he might speak. Then he smiled broadly, tossing his head back. His bark of laughter only set Aziraphale off again.

“Think Heavensbridge is pretty well thwarted for now,” Crowley said at length. “Chocolates?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Gabriel's dialogue just before he beats his ignominious retreat might or might not be a little familiar. [But it was supposed to be.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tmzjaN2DWc) (ineffablefool just listened to I'm Your Moon yesterday after hearing an astrophysicist diss Pluto. It's been a "Jonathan Coulton circa 2006" kind of week for him.)
> 
> Next time: In the present, Crowley and Aziraphale have become friends with Anathema and Tracy -- but Crowley's oldest friends have some alarming new information for him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, Crowley and Aziraphale have become friends with Anathema and Tracy -- but Crowley's oldest friends have some alarming new information for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** Use of the word "fat" in a positive context. Oblique references to various kinds of criminality. Unnecessary references to late-70s Disney movies, mid-oughts Disney movies, and T. S. Eliot.

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghost-of-your-past-and-mine-ch-8) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
_2020_

Laughter bounced off the ceiling of Crystal Magus Occult Shoppe And Gifts. Everything else was muffled by gauzy drapes and hanging scarves and tapestries of questionable artistic merit, but apparently there was some kind of fire ordinance or something mundane like that, so the vents and sprinklers and everything up there were as bare as when the place had reopened.

Madame Tracy swatted at Crowley from across the table. “Now, you can’t expect us to _believe_ that story. After the third time you ended up in the pond —”

“After the _fourth_ time, he telephoned me.” Aziraphale turned to Crowley, round face glowing with hilarity at his expense. “I had to go over to the park and save him from the vicious beast.”

They all had a giggle at that, Crowley included. Too-cool Crowley, bullied by a park swan until soft little Aziraphale came and rescued him — it was funny when you looked at it that way.

That’d been back when their friendship was a new thing. Not that long after he’d watched Aziraphale paint a bookshop wall, wishing the whole time that he could just drop his own roller and step over there and _hold_ him. He hadn’t really been sure whether he was asking too much, ringing out of nowhere with a half-incoherent cry for help, but he didn’t know who else to go to. No one else in that corner of the park on such a rainy day, even if Crowley wanted to try flagging down a stranger. And it wasn’t like he could ask Hastur or Ligur.

Aziraphale hadn’t mocked him. Hadn’t yelled at him for wasting his time. Aziraphale had come right over, shooed the swan off like it was nothing, and walked him back to the shop. His uncle had sent the both of them upstairs so Crowley could get dried off, and then Crowley had hung around the rest of the day distracting Aziraphale from working, and every time he’d gotten him to smile had been the best moment of his life.

Aziraphale was smiling at him now. Best moment of Crowley’s life.

“You couldn’t have just not walked by that pond, of course.” Anathema’s eyebrow was very delicately raised, when he looked over. “That would’ve been too easy.”

Crowley gave his most extremely casual shrug. “Was trying not to let the bird _win_ , yeah?”

Laughter again. Crowley took a gulp of his tea, and never mind that he’d honestly rather have coffee. They did this every Tuesday, tea at Tracy and Anathema’s shop. Had for the better part of two months.

One of the first times, he hadn’t bothered to show up. Madame Tracy had asked Aziraphale to call him and invite him specifically.

Crowley was... wanted, apparently. Missed when he wasn’t there. Seemed like some kind of mistake.

When Anathema spoke again, her voice was a little less dry. “Hold on. So when we were hanging out at the park last weekend, and you absolutely insisted on going the long way around...” She grinned. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been trying to avoid the same swan ever since.”

“Eurgh, uh, well. Swans never forget.”

Aziraphale made a funny little sound, almost exactly like someone trying not to laugh into his tea. “That’s _elephants_ , Crowley.”

“Tell that to the swan with the bloody vendetta against me!”

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled at him, mouth tucking up into a familiar _you are being ridiculous but I’m going to allow it_ sort of smile. That was one of the best ones.

“It’s a very good thing you have your Aziraphale to watch over you, then.” Madame Tracy said it like it was perfectly reasonable. “Oh! How long have you been out of tea, Aziraphale dear? There you are...”

Steam curled up from the teapot, and Crowley focused on it for a second. Tracy always arranged their teas just so on the little table that she did her readings at. It was a bit snug for four, but Crowley wouldn’t complain. 

  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_  
  


Aziraphale didn’t seem inclined to either. He _loved_ the tea, and the matching floral teacups and teapot. He loved the delicate tablecloth Tracy would spread out under everything. All the fussiness delighted him, almost as much as getting to talk knitting and antiques and whatever else with someone else who was actually knowledgeable about it, instead of just being happy to listen and ask occasional stupid questions.

Aziraphale sipped at his fresh cup of tea. “Thank you, dear lady... To be honest, I think we watch over each other, after all these years. It’s — well, a mutual arrangement.”

Those bright eyes turned back to Crowley. “I’ve certainly needed my fair share of rescues.”

“Le Bastille,” Crowley said.

“All of which are topics for another time —”

“Never seen anyone nearly get thrown out of a restaurant for trying to order in French, and yet —”

Aziraphale frowned for about a quarter-second. “I was a bit out of practice! I didn’t _mean_ to insult the poor waiter’s honor.”

Crowley drowned any further comment in a gulp of tea. He could feel his smirk refusing to go down with the ship, though, and Aziraphale’s mouth couldn’t quite hide its upturn either. Crowley was absolutely never going to let him live that incident down. Aziraphale would probably be a little disappointed if he did.

“I’ve a friend across the city who enjoys French food,” Tracy said. “She swears by this little restaurant near her flat. I’ve never been, but...”

The doily fans at the table spun off into their own conversation. Crowley tilted an eyebrow at Anathema meanwhile. “Well, you look exhausted, book witch. Up late reading _New Aquarian_ again?”

“ _Esoteric Digest_ , actually. This month’s cover article is a fascinating piece about a telepathic cat with a pilot’s license.”

Anathema gave him the best deadpan he’d ever seen in his life, not so much as a smidgen of laughter in her eyes. Either that, or she really did believe...

“His girlfriend is named Lucybelle,” she added.

Crowley threw his head back and directed a “Ha!” at the bare ceiling. “Good break from ley lines and auras, then?”

“It was either that or watch a movie.” Anathema sipped at her tea. “But the last time I started one late at night, I fell asleep in the middle and had weird dreams about Kiera Knightley trying to sell me a potato.”

Crowley considered this for a second. “Was it a nice potato?”

“...not really.”

“Shame.”

Anathema nabbed one of the biscuits from the center of the table, then tapped it against her saucer instead of eating it. “Of course,” she said, “there’s the _interpretation_ of the potato to consider. Buying one could represent taking on a new opportunity, one that will bring joy and security. Or it could be a problem to get rid of before it blows up.”

Crowley waited for more, but all she did was chew on her biscuit a bit. “And Kiera Knightley represents...?”

“The importance of not starting _Pirates Of The Caribbean_ after midnight.”

Which was perfectly reasonable. Maybe not the most universally-applicable lesson, but Crowley really couldn’t argue with it.

Across the table, Madame Tracy burst out into uncontrollable laughter. Aziraphale, on Crowley’s right, gaped at her, eyebrows so high they were practically in his hair. “You _didn’t_. Why, that poor girl —”

Tracy shook her head, hand fluttering at her chest. “Oh, goodness, dearie, I told her exactly what she needed to hear. That’s the whole point of a reading.” She smiled at Anathema. “I told all of Anathema’s student friends just exactly what they needed to hear to give them a little push in the right direction.”

Anathema raised a finger, and Tracy frowned.

“Ah, yes. All except the one. Kept insisting that actually, he didn’t believe in any of this.”

“Smart kid,” Crowley stage-whispered to Anathema, which got him a laugh from both the women, and a well-mannered gasp from Aziraphale.

Eventually the tea was gone, the biscuits eaten. Crowley had an invite to join Anathema and her mates for drinks at the end of the week. He and Aziraphale walked back to the shop, arms and hands bumping together as they navigated the busy pavement, talking about nothing in particular the whole way.

“Think I’ll head home,” Crowley said as they reached the front step. “You’ve got that new shipment to look through, and all.”

Aziraphale had been about to unlock the door. He stopped now with his hand flattened against it. His knuckles were little divots in the soft flesh, below the round fingers. Crowley wondered what it would be like to kiss them.

“Are you sure?”

Aziraphale’s voice barely carried over the noise of the traffic. His eyes flickered over Crowley’s face. 

“You’d be very welcome. In fact, I wish you’d —” He looked down at the pavement. Up again, pronouncing his next words with a sort of gentle caution. “You should never feel as though you have to leave.”

Crowley’s hands were deep in his pockets, where they couldn’t touch or caress or hold. “It’s fine. You’re not running me off. I know I can —”

He let one hand free just long enough to knock against the air. Same old familiar pattern. _I love you, angel_.

The smile that spread across Aziraphale’s face was warm and fond. Maybe the best kind. Or the worst, because it made him even more unbearably beautiful.

“Always,” he said, “any time. You really ought to let me give you a key; it’s silly, you having to wait to be let in.”

Crowley shrugged. “Don’t mind waiting.”

Aziraphale accepted that as an answer, same as he did every time the subject came up, every year or three since... since Crowley couldn’t even remember when. He finished unlocking the door, opened it, but didn't go inside quite yet. He didn't look at Crowley, either. The smile still lingered.

Then his midnight eyes raised to the sunglasses again. “Will you text me when you get home?”

“Not _that_ many swans on the way to my flat.” The answer was obvious, though, because Aziraphale had asked him for something. “Sure. First thing once I’m there.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Goodbye, Crowley.”

“Bye, angel.”

The door shut very softly, with Crowley on the outside.

* * *

“I can tell you a little more now,” Ligur was saying. “Maybe you just need a better idea of what you’re getting into. I can respect that. Practical.”

Crowley nodded, as if Ligur could see him through the phone. “Sure. You know me. Practical sort.”

“This one’s almost next door for you, actually, in Soho.” Ligur chuckled briefly. “Remember where we tried to make a go of it for a few months, fifteen, twenty years ago?”

Crowley’s mouth went dry. “In Soho.”

“There was a block of shops with an old bookshop on the corner.” A voice in the background dragged through something resembling a sentence. “Hastur thinks there was a chemist, too.”

“Chemist.”

“Seems they’re sitting on some pretty valuable property. Our client represents an organization with an interest in acquiring, but a number of the owners are... hesitant.”

Crowley wondered if that rushing sound was coming over the phone, or just in his own head. “Who, uh... the client, is he —”

“Crowley.” Ligur’s voice hovered just this side of reproachful. “We’re on a first-name basis, of course. Good friends with this client, and friends keep each other’s secrets. Am I being clear?”

An extremely vigorous nod. “Yeah, no. I get it. Bosom pals, and all. But for the sake of, y’know, conversation...”

“Gabriel,” Ligur said, just like Crowley knew he would. “A very good, very _deep-pocketed_ friend.”

There were details. Vague ones. Some of the owners had sold already, or had agreed to once current leases were up. A few were still considering. There were only a handful who absolutely refused to go along with the client’s Great Plan, and the client would prefer that this cease being an issue.

Ligur paused as though Crowley had found anything to say. “Nothing untoward, of course,” he added. “I made that clear. We don’t want anything that ends up in the tabloids — kidnapping, murder. There’s other outfits happy for that kind of work. But I think we can still be very persuasive.”

Hastur’s voice sounded very close to the phone, when he spoke again, and Crowley jumped a little.

“Fear in a canful of petrol,” he said flatly. Then he laughed.

“If it comes to that.” Ligur sounded perfectly content with the idea. “The location is what our friend is really after. The buildings and their contents... well. They aren’t as important.”

Hundreds and thousands of books, ancient and well-loved and protected against the scourge of buyers. A back room with a chair shaped to one beautiful round body, and a sofa long since used to holding a much skinnier one. All the treasures of earth’s finest angel, tucked away in the flat upstairs.

Not important. Not to Gabriel.

“And the payout is worth it to you, then. Worth all that —”

He bit the rest off. The others hadn’t ever realized how much Aziraphale meant to him — he wasn’t even sure they knew he and Aziraphale were friends. They stayed back around the group’s old haunts, mostly. The village where the three of them had grown up, and surrounding parts of Oxfordshire. That had always been for the better. Aziraphale was safe as long as they didn’t know about him.

At least, he had been, until Gabriel had come to Crowley’s old lot with his Great fucking _Plan_.

Ligur seemed to have misinterpreted the outburst, fortunately. Didn’t realize why Crowley thought the money could never be worth it. “High risk, high reward,” he said, “and I think we can manage the risk. No one ever caught us back in the old days, after all.”

Crowley thought back over the years to a dingy alley, and him with a can of paint, and a door opening to let an angel step forth. The angel had been shining, and gorgeous, and Crowley could have run away easily, because the angel was also soft and fat and built for cuddling, not for speed. Crowley hadn’t run away. Crowley had already long since been caught.

“Uncatchable, we were.” Crowley rubbed his forehead. “Real escape artists.”

“Right. So are you in?”

He ought to tell Aziraphale. Well — no, really, he _wanted_ to tell Aziraphale. He ought to tell the police. What any good law-abiding citizen would do, right? _Hello, officer, a couple of thugs from Lower Tadfield are planning to roll into town and intimidate and/or burn some business owners out of their livelihoods. Oh, how do I happen to know all this? Well, y’see..._

No. No police. But it was obvious he had to do something, to protect the shop, protect Aziraphale. Same way they’d been protecting each other all this time.

An idea was still forming, but he knew what his answer to Ligur was. “Keep me in, y’know, the loop. In the know.”

“Excellent.” It was awful, being the reason for Ligur to sound that pleased. “We should gather at the Churchyard to celebrate.”

When they hung up, Crowley felt like napping for a few decades. No rest for the him, though. He had his angel to watch over, and, somehow, a plan to thwart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Back in 2015, Aziraphale meets Crowley for what should be a lovely day together at the park. Crowley has a request for him, though, and it's not one Aziraphale is prepared to grant.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 2015, Aziraphale meets Crowley for what should be a lovely day together at the park. Crowley has a request for him, though, and it's not one Aziraphale is prepared to grant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** References to deadly weaponry, but no such weaponry is present in the chapter. References to the possibility of a character being hurt or killed, but again, everyone's perfectly fine during this chapter, physically speaking. It's a sad one, though. You might be able to guess that given the summary, if you remember your cold open. (Unless you're reading this without having seen the Good Omens TV series -- in which case, good heavens, hello, however did you end up here? welcome!)

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghost-ch-9) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_  


  
_2015_

Crowley was standing by the pond when Aziraphale joined him. His posture held its usual disaffected sway, but his hands betrayed him: they weren’t resting on the railing, nor tucked away in his pockets. Instead, they were clasped stiffly in front of him, one hand tight around the other wrist. He stared at the water, not even glancing Aziraphale’s way at first.

Then he did look over. The tension didn’t disappear, but it lessened slightly. His mouth formed a charming little smile. “Where did you even _find_ ace pride tartan?”[1]

“Well. Hello to you too.” Aziraphale tucked his bagful of carefully defrosted peas under an arm so he could adjust his new bow tie. “I thought it would be nice to get into the spirit of Pride, a bit. I could put flags in the shop windows, of course, but...”

“...but then you’d have people thinking they were welcome.”

Crowley’s voice was warm with laughter, teasing in the way that meant he very much wanted Aziraphale to join him. He’d accepted Aziraphale’s being gay from the very start — it hadn’t even needed a conversation. It simply was, like the curl to his hair or the tilt of his nose. Crowley had accepted Aziraphale’s asexuality even more easily, once Aziraphale actually realized it for himself.

It had taken a bit of research to confirm that no, most people didn’t make it well past thirty without having felt the desire for those sorts of activities even once. It had taken time after that for the identity to settle into his heart. But when he’d come out to Crowley last year, the answer had been instantaneous. _Lots of people are, angel. Hundred percent of the people in this room, for a start._

He always cut through to the heart of the matter like that. Always with his bold sense of humor.

Aziraphale lifted his nose in the air, playing along. “Come now. We both know there is no more welcome place for queer people in all of Soho than my shop.”

“‘s long as they don’t try to buy anything.”

“As long as they don’t try to buy anything.”

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, feeling very pleased with himself when Crowley smiled back. They both laughed, and Crowley relaxed, hands unclenching at last. He shifted position, stepping a bit closer —

But the moment passed. Crowley’s sunglasses turned to face over the water again, all the laughter gone as though it had never been, replaced with the unfamiliar tension. “Look, I’ve been thinking. What if I’ve just fucked it all up?”

“With your Tadfield associates?”

Crowley nodded. “Think they’ve been tired of me for a while. Well —” a harsh laugh — “I mean, them and everyone else, yeah?”

A protesting sound leapt on its own from Aziraphale’s throat.

“Only they really needed a third for this one. Guess they thought they’d give me a last chance.” Crowley looked over, just long enough to dip long fingers into the bag of peas. He sent a few hurtling out into the pond. “Fucked it up, though. Told them no, I couldn’t take records from a _hospital_ , especially not records for a _kid_ , you can’t do that to _kids_.”

Unease moved through Crowley’s words. “Suspect they’ll be furious now.”

Aziraphale tossed out his own handful of peas to the flock gathering before the both of them. “I wasn’t aware you were still concerned about their opinions.”

“It’s not that, exactly. Just...” Crowley grimaced. “They’re dangerous. Not just to me.”

He drew himself up as straight as Aziraphale had ever seen him.

“I need a favor.”

Aziraphale took a moment to concentrate on his task, digging out the perfect treats from the bag, aiming his next throw very carefully. Crowley knew, had to know by now how important he was to Aziraphale, how gladly Aziraphale would help him with practically anything, just as Aziraphale knew Crowley would be there for him. He’d never asked like this before, though. Not stiff, almost formal, voice gone flat and serious.

“You’re my best friend,” Aziraphale answered softly. “If there’s any way I can help...”

Crowley’s mouth twitched down again. “Not sure you’ll see it as help. But. But if it turns out I really did push them too far, turning this job down... if it all goes pear-shaped —”

He grinned sharply, although if there was humor in the expression, it was well-hidden. “Hang on. You _like_ pears, that won’t work. If it goes _wrong_. I want insurance.”

“Wh — Crowley —”

Crowley shoved a folded sheet of paper at him, going on without waiting for him to open it. “I wrote it down. Never remember the full list on my own, but — look, you know people who sell all kinds of antiques, not just books, yeah? And I know a guy. He says you can buy any of those _as_ antiques. Says there’s a few of them floating around, still, even a hundred years or more later. Collectors and things. Sold as curiosities, not regulated.”

Aziraphale skimmed the list, half-listening. It held a number of entries in Crowley’s scrawled hand, none of them particularly clear as to their meaning. Then he reached the line reading _.44 Smith & Wesson Russian_, which threw everything else into horrible context.

“You want a _gun?_ ” He looked up, into the sudden silence, glad for once that he couldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes, when his own were stinging in a way that wouldn’t bear examination. “Out of the question.”

“My guy can make ammunition,” Crowley said, as if it was reasonable. As if Aziraphale was the one being foolish here. “‘S why you can buy these, because they don’t make the ammo anymore. Except this guy knows how.”

“You — you idiot, you know you’ve never handled a gun in your life —”

It seemed he might drop the paper, it jumped so in his grasp. He pushed it back into Crowley’s hands. His own didn’t stop trembling, though, and the stinging in his eyes was only growing worse. “I’m not getting you something that could _kill_ you, Crowley.”

Crowley breathed in deeply, then shook his head. “It’s _insurance_.” 

He took Aziraphale’s hands, holding them still for a moment, and Aziraphale felt his own lungs stop for some reason. Crowley’s cheeks were pale, but the lines of his face spoke of something more than simple worry. His mouth hung softly open, almost as if he had something to say to Aziraphale, something Aziraphale might or might not be ready to hear...

The piece of paper was slipped into his hands again, and Crowley’s tender grip fell away.

“I could defend myself from them with this. Defend _you_. Couldn’t go on if you were. If they.” His throat bobbed, but he didn’t finish the thought. “Ask your other shop friends. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

“Out of the question.”

“ _Aziraphale_...”

“Absolutely out of the question,” Aziraphale snapped. The stinging in his eyes had faded into a sort of hot dryness, and his heart was juddering in his chest, and he wanted nothing more than to shake Crowley until he dropped this nonsense forever. A gun, a _gun_ in the hand of his sweet gentle Crowley, and Aziraphale himself the one to put it there? Never. Not so long as he lived. “Do you know what you’re asking me? Using our — our friendship to arm yourself —”

Crowley turned from the water, and Aziraphale had no doubt that the full attention of those hidden eyes was on him now. “ _Using?!_ ”

“Well, whatever you wish to call it.” Aziraphale tried to force himself not to look anywhere else: at the ground, the sky, the innocently paddling waterfowl. He could feel the fire of a moment ago ebbing, leaving him with a lip that seemed intent on wobbling. “I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”

Crowley’s brows lowered. “Can get by just fine without needing to _use_ you, angel.”

“I’m —” The words skipped around a sudden, painful breath. “I’m quite sure you can.”

What had it been — two minutes, since Crowley had laughed at him, _smiled_ at him, as though pleased just to be spending time with him? Three minutes? Less than that since his slim hands had folded around Aziraphale’s much rounder ones, pressing warm and gentle against his skin, only to give him this dratted _list_.

Aziraphale crumpled it in one fist as he turned away. The day was spoiled. He had spoiled it, perhaps, but how could Crowley honestly expect to be given such a dangerous thing such as that? He had no experience with guns, and accidents _happened_ , and Aziraphale refused to endanger the life of his — his friend, his greatest, dearest friend —

A single footstep crunched behind him, and then Crowley’s voice sounded, low and choked. “I don’t need you.”

Aziraphale whirled back, ears ringing as if he’d been slapped. “Well, and the feeling is mutual! Obviously!”

He hurled Crowley’s list of death towards the water, not staying to see where it landed. Crowley made some answer that was lost to the empty air.

Aziraphale’s eyes prickled violently as he went, vision blurring so much that he had to collapse onto a bench as soon as he thought he might be out of view. He half-feared, half-hoped Crowley would follow him. The humiliation of being caught crying would be tempered by the ability to curl his fingers into Crowley’s jacket and cry against his chest.

Crowley did not follow. Aziraphale was left alone to hear his own hateful words repeat in his ears, along with Crowley’s. His parting statement was — true, yes, admittedly. He did not need Crowley. He _wanted_ him to retain a key place in his life, valued and cared for. But he could survive, knowing Crowley was out there somewhere in the world, even if they never spoke again.

As to what Crowley had meant... surely it had been much the same with him. It would be ridiculous to think anything else, to fear that perhaps Aziraphale had not been so important to him as he’d believed. And, really, it didn’t matter either way. Obviously.

Aziraphale scrubbed at his eyes and wished Crowley had followed him.

It was a lonely evening above the bookshop, and a lonelier time in the shop the next day, and the next. Crowley did not answer his phone, or the buzzer of his flat. Aziraphale’s texts received no responses.

_I’m so sorry we quarreled. I truly cannot help you with the favor you’ve asked, but I should have been much kinder about it. If you’re willing to hear me out, I would be very glad to apologize in person._

_It’s been a while since we last spoke. Please let me know whether you’re doing all right? I would just very much like to know that you are well._

_I sold a copy of_ Measure For Measure _today. It made me think of you._

_I miss you._

Eventually he gave up. 

It made sense that Aziraphale would long to hear that rich voice laughing, or yearn to see Crowley’s beautiful honeyed eyes. It made sense that he missed him with an ache in his chest that was sometimes dizzying. How could he not feel so strongly, after all these years of shared history? They were — they had been — best friends. Even if the loneliness did take strange forms, it was perfectly understandable. 

Aziraphale had never before cried into Crowley’s slender chest, never had his own soft form pulled into comforting arms. Why the wanting for such a thing had followed him ever since their fight in the park, he didn’t know. Perhaps he just missed his friend.

It made little difference anyway. Weeks lengthened into months, and Crowley did not return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. If you're wondering whether I'm referencing Ghostinthehouse's "Demon and Angel Professors" series, [I am in fact referencing Ghostinthehouse's "Demon and Angel Professors" series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20352373). [return to text]  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Next time: In the present, a plan is made, and Aziraphale gives Crowley something very important.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, a plan is made, and Aziraphale gives Crowley something very important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** Mentions of criminality, intimidation, arson, fire, etc, but none happens in the text.

  


Podfic for this chapter by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))

* * *

  
_2020_

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed. “No. Oh, no, I won’t stand for this, Crowley. Not for a moment.”

He reached out to where Crowley’s hand rested on the table, curled lightly around his glass, and squeezed his wrist. “They think they can frighten me away? Frighten us away? From _our shop_? Oh, my dear, do they even realize who they’re dealing with?”

Crowley was maybe not enough drinks in to be able to handle the certainty in Aziraphale’s voice, or the soft pressure of Aziraphale’s fingers on his skin. Maybe there wasn’t a number of drinks that were enough. A few sips of Scotch definitely wasn’t it. Couldn’t stop him from smiling, soft and indulgent, despite the curl of anxiety in his chest. “Think they figure you’re the one who’ll have to deal with them. And it’s not _our_ shop.”

“A mere legal formality,” Aziraphale replied, casually dismissive enough to make the curl of anxiety wind itself into a brief heart shape. “You’re absolutely right, though. We’ll have to work together.” He patted Crowley’s wrist once before letting go. “You and I alongside Madame Tracy and Anathema, and any of the other owners still holding out against Gabriel’s machinations.”

“Might not be any.” Crowley stared into his Scotch. “I’m not sure there’s anyone else left.”

“Then our side will be small but stalwart.”

Aziraphale rose from the table. There was a fire in his eyes, not quite divine fury, but something just as bright. It would probably burn anyone who dared to cross his path. Crowley wanted to bask in it like a snake.

“You’ve never admitted it, but you’re really fiendishly clever —”

“Hey,” Crowley said weakly.

“— as one might guess from your having been a veritable double agent for years, now.” Aziraphale was pacing, pudgy hands starting to flutter as he got warmed up. “You know your former associates’ ways. I, sadly, know Gabriel’s: he’s a bully, and one who appears to have forgotten that I’ve outgrown him.”

Crowley watched him, not moving his head, just tracking back and forth with hidden eyes. To an outside observer, he’d probably look bored.

“Their working together is... certainly a new development, yes, and not a pleasant one. But, Crowley...”

And the pacing was over now, as Aziraphale stopped right in front of him, hands gone quiet again. One of them drifted to the table, fingertips not an inch from Crowley’s own. 

“Tell me the truth. Do you really want to run away _now_?”

It could have been a dig. Crowley was the type who _would_ run, if the circumstances were right; who had, once, when he hadn’t seen any other option, when his staying felt like nothing but danger to anyone who mattered. He’d run away from the world and left Aziraphale behind. They both knew that.

Aziraphale’s eyes were still warm with that inner fire. There was faint color in his cheeks, a faint smile on his lips. His voice echoed around the shop, despite being so soft that anyone standing more than a few feet away would’ve had to strain to hear.

It wasn’t a dig. It was a question Aziraphale knew the answer to already.

Crowley scoffed, and Aziraphale’s little smile widened into a grin before the first words were out. “What, and let your absolute git of a cousin win? Angel. You _know_ I’m too full of spite for that.”

The fingertips next to his bounced once against the table. “Then our victory is a given. You see? Our plans are already half-made.”

Which would be a nice thought, if the remaining half didn’t feel like most of the work. None of their opponents were exactly brilliant tacticians, but backed with Heavensbridge money...

Crowley’s pocket buzzed. Aziraphale busied himself with neatening the few things on the table as Crowley pulled out his phone, reading the text from his “book witch” contact.

_You know we could put all our heads together if you came over here yeah?_

When Crowley laughed, it was only half-disbelieving. Anathema was either a PhD-level student of human behavior, spying on them, or actually able to predict future events based on the prophecies of her great-great-whatever-grandmother. Didn’t really matter. She’d known just when to text, again.

He wiggled his phone at Aziraphale. “Seems we’ve got a date with the occult shop women. Strategy and tea?”

Aziraphale beamed, already moving toward the front. “As long as you’re there, I wouldn’t even need the tea.”

He looked back, then, as though making sure Crowley was following, which of course he was. “Although I would _prefer_ both your presence and the tea. Perhaps even those delightful biscuits Tracy had the last time we were there...”

“And I suppose you’ll want some nice Mozart playing, and maybe something to read and some cocoa for afters.” Crowley ambled out into the late-morning sun while Aziraphale locked up. “All the things you love.”

The words slipped out a half-second ahead of his realizing that he’d technically put the tea and the biscuits and _himself_ in the category of things Aziraphale loved.

A beat of silence. “Exactly,” Aziraphale murmured. “What a splendid time that would be.” He turned to Crowley, looking into his sunglasses like he was trying to see underneath. Then he smiled and gestured to the pavement. “After you.”

Crystal Magus seemed to be doing well, with more customers currently present than Aziraphale’s usually had throughout an entire day. Although the bunch of uni kids huddled around the bookshelves didn’t seem like the usual clientele. All yammering loudly about whether you could lift a car with the power of your mind, and how many crystals it would take to build a death ray, and how actually, this was all rubbish, the one kid had seen debunking videos on YouTube.

“We do have some of the biscuits left,” Anathema said next to Crowley, startling a half-dozen garbled noises out of him. “Not a lot, but don’t worry. He’ll get to them before the Them do.”

She swept on toward the kids, leaving him to clutch at his poor heart while it worked out what meter it wanted to keep time in from now on.

Aziraphale had missed this exchange entirely. He’d gone on to greet Tracy, and now the two of them were setting the table.

“I’ll introduce you,” Anathema announced from his other elbow, switching his heart over to dubstep. “Guys, this is Crowley. He’ll be from the bookshop. Crowley, these are the students I met while I was dowsing near the university...”

Five of them in total. He nodded and mumbled through the introductions, then turned an eyebrow on Anathema once everyone else had swarmed over to the tea table. “Invited to the party, are they?”

She just looked back at him. “Like I said. We’ll need to put _all_ our heads together.”

Sitting before she could terrify him a third time seemed like a good idea, so Crowley did that, grabbing his usual spot by Aziraphale’s side.

“You know, there just happened to be two biscuits left.” Aziraphale beamed at him, not seeming to notice the others as they rounded up seating, everyone trying to get at least near enough to the little table that they could reach their teacups. One plump hand slid the plate of biscuits closer to Crowley. “One for you, and one for me.”

Crowley shifted his chair a little closer to give Adam (or was it Warlock?) more room to his left. “Funny how that works out.”

Two of the kids were debating the merits of milk first versus tea first — Pepper and... Wensleydale, the other one was. Tracy was getting Brian some extra napkins. The others were settling in fairly quietly, except for Anathema, who was just reappearing from having vanished somewhere.

“Right,” she said, that dry no-nonsense tone of hers cutting neatly through everything. “Thanks for coming. We’re here because we’ve all got... concerns... about Heavensbridge Development, and especially about Gabriel Gardner. I wasn’t sure what Prophecy 701 meant until Adam mentioned the Them’s research. That tied you guys” — she pointed around at the kids — “to us four. The last holdouts on this block.”

Wensleydale shook his head. “This isn’t a _prophecy_ ,” he said, “it’s an investigation. We’re being scientific about it.”

“Suppose it doesn’t matter whether there’s a prophecy or not,” said Warlock (unless it was Adam). “After Brian noticed how many buildings they were buying up near campus, we got curious, was all. And then they were at the careers fair, only they answered our questions in that way where they’re not really answering anything. So Pepper started researching some of the management —”

“Warlock helped a lot,” Pepper added, “he’s brilliant at talking to suits —”

“— and Wensleydale looked into their public financial statements.”

Brian swabbed a napkin across a puddle of spilled tea. “And I went through their trash.”

“That’s true,” Warlock-or-possibly-Adam said.

Aziraphale raised a hand, looking apologetic. “Forgive me — I have concerns about what Heavensbridge is doing, certainly. But I don’t see how this will save our shops.”

The kid next to Crowley hadn’t said anything yet. He raised his head now, shaking his hair back from one eye. “Nobody we talked to knows anything about a plan to buy this block,” he said quietly. “There used to be one, but it was dropped in 2011.”

Aziraphale looked as stunned as Crowley felt.

“Tell them who got an official reprimand for it, Warlock,” said — well, Adam, by process of elimination.

Warlock nodded at the table. “Gabriel Gardner,” he answered. “Misuse of company resources.”

The soft curve of Aziraphale’s cheek was paler than Crowley liked seeing. They were practically shoved up against each other anyway, knees bumping, the side of Aziraphale’s belly not two inches away, and it would be so simple to put a steadying arm around his shoulders —

But Aziraphale’s mouth tightened. “Then... all the time I’ve owned the shop, it’s not been Heavensbridge harassing me? It’s all been Gabriel and his... his _cronies_?”

“Trying to prove he was right, maybe.” Anathema tapped the table. “This _is_ a pretty valuable chunk of real estate. Could be a huge win for him if Heavensbridge honors the deal.”

“Although they mightn’t.” Tracy’s fingers fluttered at her throat. “Perhaps we only need to wait, let this sort itself out —”

“Actually, that might be an option —”

Crowley groaned. “Isn’t everyone forgetting something pretty fucking important here?”

They all looked at him, students and occult shop women and Aziraphale, pretty forehead wrinkled in concern. Crowley spun his teacup on the table until it wobbled hard enough to make him stop.

“First we’re going to have to deal with my old lot, and one of them _likes to play with fire_. If Heavensbridge decides not to buy the ashes, we still lose.”

Anathema’s teeth flashed in what was maybe a grin. “Oh, that part’s easy. If the money goes away then they do too, right?”

Ligur and Hastur didn’t know anything about the bookshop besides that Gabriel wanted it. They definitely didn’t know Crowley’s connection to it, or else Ligur would have been exploiting that angle for all it was worth. And with no payout... “Yeah,” he said. “ _If_ the money goes.”

“Easy,” Anathema repeated. “Heavensbridge loves showing off for the media, and I’ve got a contact at the _Standard_ who owes me one. Bet he could use some hard-working interns for an afternoon. And if the interns happen to have interesting evidence...”

Aziraphale shifted in his seat. “Gosh,” he said, eyebrows raised just a tick. “That could cost Gabriel his job.”

For a moment, Crowley thought that was an argument, a protest. That Aziraphale was saying his cousin _deserved_ to keep his fancy job with the fancy salary and the clever little intimidation racket on the side.

Then he saw the hard gleam in Aziraphale’s eye. No, there was no misplaced empathy here. Good. 

Everyone stayed to keep hammering out their plot long after the tea was gone. It wasn’t until midafternoon that they finished up, the kids scampering off to who knew where, and Crowley and Aziraphale walking back to the bookshop. Just the two of them.

It _wasn’t_ just the two of them, though, not in this fight. Definitely wasn’t just Crowley. There were the occult shop women, and Anathema’s uni friends. Maybe even that newspaper man. All of them together. Felt a lot better than trying to go it alone.

Crowley had learned years ago not to try to go it alone.

Aziraphale locked them in before turning back toward Crowley. His hands fidgeted a little against his belly.

“Angel?”

“Hmm?” Distracted-sounding. His dark eyes seemed far away, but when Crowley pushed his sunglasses up, they met his eyes immediately, crinkling in a pretty, pink-cheeked smile. “I’m terribly sorry. I was just thinking...”

Crowley waited. Aziraphale didn’t say anything more, though, and his hands kept wringing.

“C’mon, you.” He reached out, gesturing for Aziraphale to go ahead, and — and resting the other hand against the small of his back. Pressing gently, sleeveless jumper soft under his palm.

Aziraphale let himself be herded along without the least bit of smiting.

“Get you out of the doorway,” Crowley said, steering them toward the counter just to have some kind of destination. “Someone’ll see you through the window and think it’s all right to _knock_. Then you’ll have to glare at them, and maybe open up to shoo them off, and maybe they’ll try to _argue_ , and it’ll be just a big waste of time, y’know, distraction from... from...”

Aziraphale’s back was still warm against his hand. Crowley hadn’t let go. He hadn’t let go, and now they were at the counter, words and distance all running out at once.

Aziraphale shifted closer to Crowley’s touch.

“A distraction from what?”

Voice soft, almost as soft as the body practically within Crowley’s arms. His right arm still brushed against Aziraphale’s jumper, practically to the elbow. His right hand still rested on Aziraphale’s back. He could turn, could press even closer, add his other arm and wrap Aziraphale completely, both hands caressing the perfect contours of him.

“Crowley?”

Still soft. The dark eyes flickered towards him and then away, too fast to read.

Crowley gave his head a slow shake. “From whatever it is you’d rather be doing. That’s all.”

He lowered his arm.

When Aziraphale looked up at him again, his eyes were calm and steady. There was a little rise to his eyebrows, a tiny downturn at the corners of his gently-open lips. It wasn’t one of the pouts that Crowley had learned to recognize over the years, but it was like them, somehow; he felt like maybe there was a question behind it, and if only Aziraphale would ask, it would be the simplest thing in the world to answer _yes angel yes for you anything yes_. If he’d just ask.

Aziraphale stepped away, around to the other side of the counter. His hands lowered to rest against the scuffed wooden surface.

One reached beneath and emerged to set something down with a soft click.

“I had this made when you...” Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed delicately. “While you were away. I told myself that I wasn’t going to take no for an answer, if I ever saw you again. That I wasn’t going to lose my next chance to prove to you how much you matter to me.”

The flush was darkening, spreading, but he kept talking. Which was fine, seeing as how Crowley couldn’t do anything but stare.

“And then, of course. Well. It was hardly on my mind, the night you returned. And after that I rather — rather lost my nerve.” He rolled his cupped palm over the object on the counter. “Anyway, surely you knew. I needn’t make some — some great sentimental _production_ of it, if you already knew.” His mouth tugged down again. “Except you don’t. Or perhaps you won’t let yourself believe.”

His hand on the counter lifted, pushing the object towards Crowley.

“Don’t knock anymore, Crowley. Please.”

A key. A generic-looking key, probably cut by the locksmith down the street. It looked like nothing in particular, like any slightly dingy nickel-alloy key.

  
  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_  


It was too beautiful for Crowley to look at.

He looked over toward the windows, at the shelves behind Aziraphale, anywhere safe. Anywhere not _this_. “No,” he said, heart thick in his throat, “you can’t just — wh, you can’t give me _a key to your home_ , I’m a fucking _criminal_ —”

Aziraphale folded his hands without a word.

“I’ve, I’ve lifted cars and nicked old ladies’ purses — angel, I’ve _stolen_ from shops! You know that!” Crowley dragged grasping fingers through his own hair. “I’m the last, the very very last person you should _ever_ trust —”

“I forgive you.”

Crowley’s breath left him, and all the rest of it dried up in a wheeze.

“I forgive you,” Aziraphale said again. “I know what you did, all those years ago. I absolve you of whatever sins you still feel that you must carry around from your youth.” He leaned over the counter, a little, not blushing at all anymore as he pinned Crowley’s gaze with his own. “I can’t make you forgive yourself, although I wish very much that you would. But if you need to hear this from someone else — my dear fellow, please. You are _forgiven_.”

The key still sat on the counter. It didn’t care when Crowley turned away, a hand coming up to cover his eyes. Didn’t care when he shook for a second, making a sound in his throat that felt lost and pained and alone. It definitely didn’t care when he needed both hands to scrub the wetness from his cheeks.

When he finally turned back, there wasn’t anything so cheap as pity in Aziraphale’s eyes. There was only one of his glorious pouts. A very familiar one, now — _Please do this for me_ , this one meant. _Please make me happy, just like you always do._

Crowley’s hand only shook a little when he picked up the key. “Thought. Thought it was, what. Priests and things who did that. Absolving sins.”

“Ordinarily, perhaps. But _you_ needn’t settle for a mere priest.” Aziraphale smiled down at the counter, at his softly folded hands. “You’ve an angel, remember?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Back in 2016, Aziraphale encounters a danger to his person, and to a satchel full of valuable books; but help comes from an unexpected quarter.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 2016, Aziraphale encounters a danger to his person, and to a satchel full of valuable books; but help comes from an unexpected quarter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** The word "fat", used in a positive context. References to deadly weaponry, and this time **the weaponry is present in the chapter**. No one is injured, but a character is threatened with the weapon and experiences brief pain. The possibility of blood is mentioned but not made good on. The possibility of being harmed/killed is mentioned but not made good on. A character experiences brief panic/dissociation, but this is not described in detail. Very brief mild vaguely-referenced offscreen violence. 
> 
> If you think you might need to skip all that, please hop down to the end notes of the chapter for a brief summary of the bit where there's actual weaponry. There will be links in the text for you to bypass the part where anyone has anything to fear.

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghosts-of-your-past-and-mine-ch-11) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
_2016_

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale wedged his mobile against his shoulder, switching the heavy valise to his other hand. He half-wished for a moment that he’d not bought quite so many books. But it had been an unexpected windfall, netting both auction lots he’d been interested in, and the one at such a low bid — “I do still owe you for the deal you gave me on that lovely misprint. As soon as I’ve inventoried these properly, you will absolutely have first pick.”

“I know what that means,” Helen laughed, and Aziraphale grinned along with her as he waved to the taxi. “‘Inventory’, verb. What one A. Z. Fell calls it when he squirrels all his best books away and refuses to sell them to _anyone_.”

“That’s hardly a definition any credible dictionary would recognize.”

Helen laughed even harder at that, long enough that Aziraphale was in the taxi by the time she recovered. “You’re as bad as your uncle was. Do you _know_ how much of his top shelf stuff I was going to buy once he’d handed things off? His Austen collection alone...”

“Would have paid for a South Downs cottage, yes, yes.” Aziraphale settled in the back seat, ready for the trip back towards Soho. “We don’t go into bookselling for the profit margin.”

“Speak for yourself, young man. _I_ was going to be retired by the time I was forty.”

By the time they hung up, it was too late to call any of his other industry colleagues. Dmitri would probably be just as interested as Helen in negotiating for some of these finds, though... and if Aziraphale was right about the little cloth-wrapped volume that had been part of the second lot, then he might finally have something the Rushiti siblings would be willing to trade for that Marlowe.

He’d had a few years now to establish a rapport with some of Uncle Francis’s old business contacts, as well as striking up acquaintanceships with one or two more via the Internet. None of them were closer than Manchester, though — goodness, Dmitri was in _Minsk_. And Aziraphale certainly didn’t have the same kind of bond with any of them that he had with Crowley.

Or... well. That he’d once had with Crowley. 

That was a thing of the past now, though. It was a part of his youth that he would always treasure, even as he reordered his heart around its loss. The thing was, he _did_ still have his fellow booksellers, and his quiet, peaceful life, and the shop with his name over the door. And these new books. Some of them would no doubt become his friends, for him to read over and over again until they knew each other’s secrets very well.

It was so late as to nearly be early again by the time he stepped into the street outside his shop. He’d had to rise well before dawn for the drive out to the auction, and there’d been the excitement of the event itself, capped by the long trip back. Heavens, he might actually _sleep_ tonight.[skip warned section]

Aziraphale yawned at his front door, valise heavy in one hand, ready to reach into his pocket with the other.

Something cold pressed against the back of his neck.

“Tough break,” a youthful-sounding voice said behind him. “Wrong place, wrong time. Wallet, slow. Then the bag.”

The cold thing warmed with a brief bloom of pain before easing off again. “Is — good Lord, is that a _knife_?” Aziraphale clutched the valise tighter, wishing the strange noise in his ears would stop, a kind of gray static that matched the edges of his vision. “That’s — why, that’s hardly sporting.”

The blade bit tighter again, hopefully not drawing blood yet; he’d never get his waistcoat clean if that happened. The voice all but snarled at him now, its owner crowding him closer to the door. “Not taking this seriously, are you, mate? Wallet and bag, or I can lift ‘em myself, after.” A bright stab of pain sharpened Aziraphale’s senses for just a moment before the gray sensation returned.

“You can’t do that,” he answered, trying to string enough of his confused thoughts together to make this fellow leave him alone. “I’m not — I only just got these, I’ll never be able to replace them —”

The knife vanished. So did the voice, and the too-close presence at Aziraphale’s back. There was the brief sound of a scuffle, a hissed exchange that was only furious nonsense to his poor overburdened mind, and a sort of thump which was followed immediately by a rasping groan.

Footsteps staggered unevenly away.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to be able to make sense of any of it. He certainly couldn’t make sense of how to _move_ , of how to do anything but lean his forehead against the cool wood of the door and wait for the nightmare to end. When something touched him again, he couldn’t help the way he recoiled, hands fluttering to twist at each other, accompanied by a flat banging noise somewhere, much farther away than the strangled little cry in his own throat.

“Hey,” said a different voice, one older and rougher and infinitely more familiar than the one that had been here a moment ago. “Hey, no, it’s okay — it’s me, angel —”

Not a knife, but a hand, gentle on his shoulder, and Aziraphale gasped in a breath so huge it nearly shattered his ribs. “ _Crowley_ —”

He spun towards the voice, and there was a tailored black jacket for him to curl his fingers into, heedless of the desperate way he clutched the lapels. There was a thin chest for him to cry into, to try to pull himself into, as though he could burrow within it and make it his home.

Long arms wrapped around his shoulders, squeezing him close. “Angel,” Crowley murmured, “you’re okay, angel. He’s gone, promise he’s gone, he won’t — won’t hurt you...”

Crowley held Aziraphale even tighter, head dropping to rest atop his. The comforting words went on, never slowing, as Aziraphale sobbed in the arms of the man he’d thought he’d never see again. Occasionally one slender hand would rub Aziraphale’s back, or brush softly through his hair.

“You’re safe,” Crowley said, voice low and soothing. “Okay to be scared. It’s okay. But you’re safe.”

Aziraphale nodded against his chest. Yes. Yes, he’d been afraid. Terribly afraid, with a mugger at his back and — he’d thought — no one to rescue him. And it had been such a long day even before this disaster. Of course he would react so emotionally. Anyone would.

“Okay to cry,” Crowley mumbled against his hair. “I’m here.”

The aching in Aziraphale’s chest swelled again, but this time the tears were quieter, and didn’t last nearly as long.

“You know,” he said, once he felt as though he could speak in anything more than a croak. “I could rather do with some tea and some company right now.”

Crowley gave his back one last pat. “Lead the way.”

Pulling away to unlock the door, walking across the shop and up to his flat, proved an excellent set of excuses for Aziraphale to keep his face turned away; he was quite sure he was a mess, and poor Crowley’s jacket couldn’t be much better off. At least Crowley paused to sling it over the coat rack as they passed, just as he usually did. He wouldn’t have to sit in the kitchen wearing _that_ while Aziraphale washed up in the bathroom. And then once Aziraphale had had a good scrub, he could rejoin Crowley and put the kettle on for the both of them.

The kettle, however, was already singing out before he’d even entered the kitchen. Rather than sitting and waiting for him, Crowley was digging around in a cabinet. On the table were two mugs, one of them with angel wings for a handle, and Aziraphale found himself making a very strange sound in his throat.

“Hey, you.” Crowley was at his elbow with almost alarming speed, eyes uncovered and full of concern. “Going to take care of everything. You just sit.”

“But you’re my guest. I should...”

Crowley shooed him towards the table. “Nope. Sit now. Where are you hiding the biscuits?”

“I’ve Russian tea cakes in the fridge. _Crowley_...”

His head did still feel a bit strange, though. Not the muzzy terror of all that had just happened, but still not quite right. It was nice to settle in before the angel-wing mug, letting Crowley pour him tea and serve him cakes. Nice to watch him move about as though he lived here. To see him, real and vital and still his own dear self.

They’d both sat in silence for a little while, two mugs of tea warming four hands, before Aziraphale felt ready to voice any of his thoughts. Even then, it was only to the table. “I am so very glad you’re back,” he told the well-scrubbed oak.

From the edge of his vision, Crowley shrugged. “Wasn’t sure you would be. Thought maybe I’d...” He cleared his throat. “Actually been back a couple weeks.”

Aziraphale gaped at him.

“But I didn’t — maybe you were still mad, or...” Crowley’s gold-brown eyes jittered away from his. “So I’ve been, you know. Sort of stopping by, now and then. Trying to work out whether I’d be welcome.”

Something warm bubbled up in Aziraphale’s chest, showing itself as a smile which was probably impossibly fond. “You’ve been _stalking_ me.”

“Done no such thing,” Crowley grumbled, “but if I had, I. I wouldn’t be sorry for it.” His mouth thinned. “Not tonight.”

Ah. Yes. Tonight, with its... its unpleasantness, and the even less pleasant way it might have ended, had Crowley not been here. Aziraphale found his mug rather difficult to hold steady, all of a sudden, and he left it alone before he ended up with a lapful of tea. Instead, he studied his hands — good hands, strong and nimble enough, and as sturdily fat as all the rest of him. Good hands on a good, intact, undamaged body. He needed to remember that, and not dwell on what might have been. “Was, ah. Was that fellow... anyone you know?”

Crowley actually looked offended at that for a moment. “No! He was just some half-witted thug running around Soho, threatening and robbing people.” Then, softer: “Tried to put the fear of me into him a little, so maybe he won’t do it again. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Warmth rose into Aziraphale’s face for some reason. “That was very kind of you.”

“Shut up,” Crowley mumbled through a little smile.

“Well, it was. I got to keep all those lovely new books, for one thing.”

The cold shock struck him like a blow. His good, sturdy, fat body might have been ice, if ice could shudder with the force of its pounding heart. “Oh, the books! Oh, I forgot all the books! They’ll be down on the street — it will be a miracle if they’ve not been stolen —”

Crowley must have risen from his side of the table, must have gone... somewhere. Surely not beyond the confines of the flat, not in so brief a time. Even as Aziraphale was leaping from his own chair, sending it jittering back to knock against the wall, Crowley was already _there_ , standing by his side. And cradled in one thin arm, handle wrapped in long fingers, was the valise.

Crowley’s smile would have outshone the sun.

“Little miracle just for you,” he said. “Want it run downstairs?”

Aziraphale wasn’t ice, anymore; he was thawing, warmth blooming in his face, and in his heart. This was — oh, this was new, wasn’t it? It had to be new. He couldn’t have gone this long without realizing such a fundamental truth.

Perhaps he nodded. Crowley turned, carrying the valise from the room, down the stairs. Aziraphale watched him go with meltwater flooding his veins.

Crowley was the kindest, most thoughtful person Aziraphale had met in a good twenty years. He was far wittier than he gave himself credit for, sharp without being cruel, and he did not just tolerate but _welcomed_ Aziraphale’s foibles. He was Aziraphale’s best friend, and Aziraphale had loved him as a friend for a long, long time.

But Crowley was also handsome, and he was charming. Graceful, in his own peculiar limbs-thrown-everywhere way. His golden eyes were the most stunning thing Aziraphale had ever seen, other than perhaps his smile. Other than the rest of his elegant features, and his slender, gentle hands, and really everything else about his appearance. He was beautiful beyond measure, and Aziraphale loved him.

Aziraphale was _in love with him_.

He pressed one hand to his mouth, trying to calm the rushing of his heart. Had he been in love with Crowley when he’d been — good Lord, _held in Crowley’s arms_ just this evening? Oh, he must have. And in the park, when they’d fought ten months ago? Earlier? How far back did this go?

Aziraphale’s thoughts jolted onto a new track. Light footsteps were coming back up the staircase, which meant Crowley would be back at any moment. Dear, lovely Crowley, whose arms Aziraphale would like very much to wrap around his soft body, and draw him very, very close.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then pulled his chair back into place and sat back down.

“Safe and sound on your desk,” Crowley announced from the kitchen doorway. “All ready for you to look at tomorrow.” He didn’t return to his seat, but peered at Aziraphale’s mug, frowned at the uneaten tea cakes. “Fresh cup? Want something different? Barely touched anything, you have. Worrying me.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I’m all right.” He filled his empty hands with his mug. “But thank you.”

Everything he could say seemed measured out in threes. Three words, and three more, each of them nestled into the space where _I love you_ wanted to go.

“Do sit down,” he added, and Crowley did.

When he’d eaten and drunk enough to ease Crowley’s mind, he found himself banished to the sitting room until everything was cleaned up. He spent the time mostly staring into space. He was in love with Crowley, and that was something he would have to adjust to, this resettling of his heart along a new axis. But the adjustment would be his alone.

Aziraphale just wasn’t the sort to attract romance. Nothing wrong with his appearance, when men like him found love all the time; nothing wrong with his personality, when he could strike up a pleasant acquaintanceship with the best of them. There was something missing from him, that was all. He lacked whatever might let one be seen as a possible partner.

Aziraphale could not be loved. Therefore, logically, Crowley could not love him. 

The water in the kitchen shut off. When Crowley emerged, his usual saunter was absent; he moved as though not quite sure what he was doing, and looked at Aziraphale as though not quite sure what to expect. Aziraphale struggled against an embarrassed blush, wresting his eyes to the floor. His feelings couldn’t be _that_ obvious, for Crowley to have guessed them already —

“Will you be okay, angel?”

Aziraphale jumped in his seat a little. “I — sorry, what?”

Crowley waved at the doorway that led toward the stairs. “After, you know. All that outside. Been through a lot today, need your sleep, don’t you, I ought to clear out and let you get it.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched. “If you think you’ll be okay.”

Of course. It was late, after all, terribly late. So late that it was early again. Aziraphale ought to sleep. Ought to let Crowley do the same.

And perhaps he nodded, because Crowley blew out a sharp breath. “Right. See myself out, then. Call if you need me —” He seemed to stumble as he moved toward the door. “If you need anything, anything at all —”

Aziraphale ought to let him go. What he wanted, though, all hung on the three words it would be foolish to let himself say.

“Oh, _don’t_ go” was what came out instead, and he felt his face go hot at Crowley’s startled look. “I’d feel better — if you stayed.”

Crowley’s eyes softened. “Could do that,” he said. “Perfectly good sofa right here. And any bad dreams that wanted to reach you would have to get past me.”

“I’m sure you’d knock them silly,” Aziraphale smiled; and when Crowley grinned at him, something loosened in his chest.

Once Crowley had been tucked in with Aziraphale’s softest blanket, there was little more to say. The poor dear was half asleep by that point anyway. Perhaps coming to Aziraphale’s rescue had tired him more than he’d been willing to show.

Aziraphale turned out the light, starting down the hallway to his bedroom. Then he paused.

“I missed you,” he said into the darkness, his heart silently replacing that middle word.

Crowley’s reply was surprisingly gentle. “I missed you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Description of warned content:**  
>  Aziraphale suffers an attempted mugging as he's about to enter his shop late at night. He feels something sharp and briefly painful, presumably a knife, at the back of his neck, and an unfamiliar voice threatens him and demands to be handed his valuables. Aziraphale experiences briefly-described dissociation (difficulty processing what he's hearing/seeing, difficulty concentrating/communicating). Then the mugger is dispatched with by an unseen other person (Aziraphale hears someone get punched once). The mugger leaves and does not return. Aziraphale is still frightened at this point, but no longer in any danger.
> 
> Return to beginning of chapter \-- you'll be able to skip the warned section via another link in the text, if you decide that you want to. The knife and the mugger are both mentioned again after the fact, and I can't really provide a jump-skip for those mentions, but again, by that point all threats are gone and will not return.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Next time: In the present, after Heavensbridge is confronted, there's a lot of things happening (all good).


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, Heavensbridge is confronted, after which there's a lot of things happening (all good).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** Vague conversational reference to the possibility of harm coming to a character (everyone's fine, promise). The word "fat" is present, used in a positive context. Unnecessary Star Trek TOS references.
> 
> There is now a total chapter count at last! Looks like there will be one epilogue in addition to the original 13 planned chapters.

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghosts-of-your-past-and-mine-ch-12) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
_2020_

Anathema’s newspaper man was a nervous-looking guy in hipster glasses with a weird Luddite streak. “It’s not that I don’t _like_ technology,” he insisted, “it just, er. Doesn’t like me.” Then he’d dropped his phone when Anathema swept past.

There had been official-looking black portfolios which Newt had given to each of the Them, props for their roles as interns. The last one he’d tried to hand to Crowley.

“Yyyeah, no.” Crowley hoisted an eyebrow to drive home what a ridiculous idea that was. “I’m not the newspaper-intern type.”

Newt looked sort of lost. “Yes, but... isn’t that our whole, um, cover story? I mean, it’s not a cover story for me, obviously, I really do work for the _Standard_ , but, um, but for the rest of you —”

“Look. You ever had a coworker who dressed like this?”

Crowley was slouched against a shelf near the front of Crystal Magus, the perfect rebel-without-a-clue pose, sunglasses and all. He wasn’t wearing a leather jacket today, but it was leather trousers, and matching black shirt, and huge clunky studded boots that could probably kick someone’s head in, if he ever got the mind. And he knew Newt had seen the tattoo. Proper office types looked like Newt, mild and polite in his neat khakis and his generically dark-blue tie. So of course Newt wouldn’t have seen anyone like him —

“Um. Yes?”

Crowley raised the other eyebrow this time.

“I mean, I’m fairly sure Lisha in Digital Marketing has those exact boots.” Newt’s brows furrowed. “So — none of the shop owners are coming? I thought at least one of you might want to observe, but the other three all said no already...”

He was still holding the portfolio, tapping restless fingers on the padded cover. It had the paper’s logo embossed in the corner, Crowley noticed. Very posh.

Sort of funny that everyone was looking at him like he was making a fuss over nothing, seeing as he wasn’t posh at all.

“Not an owner, remember?” He glanced toward the back of the shop, saw Tracy and Aziraphale laugh together about something as they set up the table. “Don’t really have a part in this little heist.”

Wensleydale frowned. “Actually, I don’t think it’s a heist if we’re not taking anything.”

“We’re taking Gabriel’s arse out, ideally.” And here was something the others couldn’t argue with. “Thing is, he knows me, so if he sees me wandering around the building, he’s going to know something’s up. Yeah? Complication we don’t need. So I stay here, you guys go do your... interview... thing...” He waved a hand. “More sense that way.”

Anathema did one of her mysterious appearances. “Plus we can all observe even if we stay here. Crowley, Aziraphale is going to want you back there in a second. Newt, remember to ignore the detour signs, okay?”

Couldn’t get much better cover than that, what with how Newt suddenly had trouble holding on to things again. Crowley slunk away, making his own appearance next to Aziraphale just as the angel started to call his name.

“Crowl — oh!” A little laugh. “Always there when I need you. It’s your turn to pick the tea — did you want the chai again, or something else?”

Crowley shrugged. “Surprise me.”

It was quiet, once Tracy locked up behind the departing newspaper bunch. The four of them sat in their usual spots at the table, but no one seemed interested in talking. Anathema kept her mobile close to hand.

“I’ll mute it,” she said after a while, and when the phone rang almost immediately, Crowley wasn’t even surprised. She tapped at the screen before setting it back down.

The conversation was already in progress, from the sound of it. The speaker emitted a rasping sound, some loud rustlings, and then Wensleydale’s muffled voice.

“ — a little confused,” he was saying, “because the shareholder statements that year said that the project was being cancelled.”

The next voice was unfamiliar. American, higher than Wensleydale’s, flat but maybe a little amused. “It was cancelled, all right,” this voice agreed. “Further analysis suggested the returns wouldn’t actually be as good as the project team initially reported. It’s also the buildings themselves which really give the neighborhood its character. We felt that removing them wasn’t in the best interests of the community.”

“I should say _so_ ,” Aziraphale muttered beside Crowley, before pressing a hand over his mouth and staring wide-eyed at the phone.

Pepper’s voice was already in the middle of the next question. “ — headed that project was Gabriel Gardner?”

“Yes,” said the mystery voice.

Crowley leaned over when he realized Aziraphale was barely even breathing. “‘S on _mute_ , angel. They can’t hear us.”

“They can’t?” Aziraphale looked slightly less nervous. His hand drifted down from his mouth, although it landed on _Crowley’s_ hand, not actually on the table. “How remarkably clever.”

“Clever,” Crowley agreed.

It was still Pepper on the phone meanwhile. “Everyone on the project was reassigned elsewhere by August 2011?”

“They were.” The mystery voice was still amused, although maybe a little baffled at what probably felt like a weird line of questioning. “We don’t generally keep people working on withdrawn plans.”

Another papery sound. This must have been Warlock, he was the quiet, polite one — “You might be interested in seeing this, ma’am.”

The four of them at the table listened to the vague hum of the connection. Presumably whoever was being interviewed was looking at some key piece of evidence or other.

When the American spoke again, the amusement was gone. “Where did this come from?”

“This was delivered to one of the shops in May of 2012.”

Pepper took back over again now — why so many of them were tag-teaming some poor media relations employee, Crowley had no idea. “The others are basically the same. If you want to skip ahead, the bottom two are from last month.”

Yet more paper sounds. “So they are,” the stranger said, and Crowley shared a grin with Aziraphale at the edge on those words. It’d turned out that Aziraphale had kept all Gabriel’s offers on the shop, filed away with eight years’ worth of statements and receipts and related stuff. The Them had been very interested in them, and apparently, so was this Heavensbridge rep.

The rest of the info-dumping session was brief. The stranger obviously wanted to get everyone out of their office but was too polite to say so. Those buyout offers — on fancy Heavensbridge letterhead, going completely against what Heavensbridge had been officially doing — were probably the most exciting thing to come across their desk all week.

Newt finally chimed in as they were wrapping up, thanking their interviewee, calling them by name for the first time since Crowley had started listening in. “Running an organization like this, it must take up a lot of your time,” he added, “keep you very, er, busy.” Which was such a giant load of stating-the-obvious that Crowley would have laughed, except he was still stuck on that _running an organization_ thing. His phone was in his hand the second Anathema’s had disconnected.

The Heavensbridge website included the usual About Us page. There at the top of the leadership team was the name Newt had said. That hipstery bundle of nerves had managed to get an interview with the CEO.

Who Crowley was pretty sure was Gabriel’s boss.

“Goodness.” Tracy gave her head a little shake. “I think they did rather well.”

“They did _brilliant_.” Crowley grinned, hard and almost painful, then looked at Anathema. “You might just be on to something, book witch.”

* * *

Crowley’d thought some kind of media circus would spring up around Heavensbridge, a whole messy scandal. Instead they barely made the _Standard’s_ local news section. Might’ve been a different story if any money had changed hands yet. Gabriel had been stringing everyone along on promises, though. Probably intending to deliver the whole thing as one big offer he figured the company couldn’t refuse.

The article was very polite, with its talk of performance audits and department restructuring. You’d never guess it meant Gabriel and all his people had been kicked to the curb, but Newt had been quietly informed by a grateful CEO that it in fact meant just that.

“No more buy offers,” Aziraphale said when Crowley swung by just before close the next day, literally bouncing a little with delight. “No more officious little _visits_. Oh, isn’t it splendid?”

Eyes dancing and cheeks flushed, so excited that Crowley couldn’t help but smile back just as bright. He sprawled on his elbows, back against the counter by the register. “We should celebrate. Yeah? Anywhere, take you out anywhere. You want the Ritz? It’s a date.”

Aziraphale did a very poor job of looking disapproving. “The Ritz? Surely that’s too extravagant for something like this.”

“Okay, _extravagant_ , maybe, but —”

Crowley’s phone buzzed, and he glared down at the screen reflexively before noticing who it was.

Ligur. Another call from the old lot, and he could pick up and make nice again, or he could ignore the call completely.

Or there was a third option.

“Angel,” he said, and Aziraphale’s eyes met his. “I’m gonna answer this. Okay?”

He waited for the nod, then turned on the speaker, setting his phone down on the counter. “Ligur.”

“Crowley,” Ligur said. “I just got off the phone with our good friend. The one we were going to do a favor for.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “Yeah? What’d Gabey say, then?”

Aziraphale stifled a laugh.

“The whole thing’s off,” Ligur grumbled. “I wasn’t able to get much in the way of details from him. Seems he was calling on his way out the door to somewhere. But the deal’s fallen through on his end, so there’s no payday in it for us.”

It was getting hard for Crowley to stifle his own laugh. “No heading over to Soho to change some minds, then?”

Ligur sounded absolutely disgusted by everything. “Not with no reward for the risk. Even _Hastur_ knows that.”

“Right.” Crowley took a deep breath, wondering if the counter under his arm was shaking or if it was just him. “Right. Hey, Ligur?”

An irritated sigh. “What?”

“Don’t call me again.”

Utter, blinding silence answered that. Here in the shop, Aziraphale just stared, a wondering little smile beginning to bloom as Crowley went on. “Not for a job, not for a chat, not for a nice little lurk. Nothing. I don’t actually want to hear from you _or_ Hastur ever again.”

Another pause before Ligur answered. “I don’t know what you’re up to —”

“Oh, really? Well, then I’d better explain, yeah?” Crowley still wasn’t looking at the phone. Still had his eyes locked with Aziraphale’s, and his own wobbly grin probably made him look like an idiot, but Aziraphale looked amazed and delighted and beautiful.

“The thing is,” he went on, feeling his heart thumping all the way down in his fingers; “the thing _is_ , you’re both terrible friends. Using me, haven’t you been? Maybe since the beginning. And I’m done with it now. _That’s_ the thing.”

Ligur’s voice was quieter when he spoke again. “You don’t get to just walk away from our kind of history. You know that.”

Nerves started to fade back into just giddiness, because of course he was ready for that sort of threat. “Oh, sure, right, yeah. Know where all the bodies are buried, don’t I? And you might think oh, be easy if something happened to Crowley then, wouldn’t it. Tie everything up nice and neat. But! You’d be wrong.”

“And why is that?” Ligur sneered.

“Because,” Crowley said, and without even thinking he reached out for Aziraphale, slung an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. “My friends know about you too, now. And some of _them_ are _journalists_.”

“You don’t _have_ any real friends but us!”

There was a gentle touch on his back. Aziraphale’s arm, winding around him, returning his gesture.

Crowley felt like his heart was warming, all of a sudden. Maybe thawing. Maybe finally coming out of the dark. “Yes I do,” he told Ligur, squeezing Aziraphale’s shoulder again. “Got a bunch of ’em, actually. Realer friends than you ever were.”

He picked up the phone with his free hand. “Go to hell, Ligur. And tell Hastur I said the same to him.”

The phone beeped once as he hung up.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said. Suddenly there wasn’t just an arm around Crowley’s back — Aziraphale had both arms around him, was _hugging_ him, in a way he hadn’t done since... well, ever. They didn’t hug. He’d really gotten the sense that Aziraphale wasn’t the hugging sort.

Here he was now, though, arms so tight around Crowley’s chest that it was a little hard to pull in a breath. Although maybe that was just Crowley’s lungs giving up in shock at the whole experience. Aziraphale’s cheek rested on Crowley’s shoulder, and it wasn’t like he was _holding_ Crowley, exactly, they weren’t pressed _that_ close together and it wasn’t that kind of hug, but Crowley could still feel all Aziraphale’s adorable softness, warm and yielding and he really needed to put his phone back down before he dropped it, didn’t he.

“That was marvelous,” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s shirt. “I’m so proud of you, my dear.”

Crowley put his arms carefully around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Returning the hug. Ready to pull back if it seemed like Aziraphale didn’t like it. “Just — just was time, is all. Past time. Years past, should have said something years ago, I just —”

Aziraphale’s arms pulled back until his soft hands were on Crowley’s chest. It was a weird kind of _deja vu_ , because they’d been here once before, years ago, Aziraphale’s hands just there, and Crowley’s arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Only different, because then Aziraphale had been terrified, needing comfort from a friend after being assaulted in front of his own home. He wasn’t terrified now. There weren’t any tears in the dark eyes that turned up to Crowley’s, only tenderness.

“My dear,” he said, for the second time in under a minute. “There’s something I should have said years ago, too.”

He blushed, just a little. Probably someone who hadn’t spent thousands of hours gazing at his pretty face wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

Crowley’s heart started thumping all the way out to his fingers again. His chest felt tight even though Aziraphale wasn’t squeezing it anymore. No, Aziraphale’s hands were still on his chest, palms flat, undoubtedly picking up whatever the hell his heart was doing.

“I’ve known since the day you came back after — after our fight.” Aziraphale’s brows drew together. “But it was true before that, too. Already true when we fought. It’s horrid, I might not have said those things to you if I hadn’t —”

“You were _right_ , Aziraphale. Would’ve gotten myself hurt if you hadn’t stopped me. But you did.” Crowley’s hands moved on Aziraphale’s back, wanting to run comforting little circles against it, but not quite daring. “‘M glad you did.”

Aziraphale nodded. Looked up at him with eyes that were steady and calm.

“I’m in love with you, Crowley. I hope you can still be my friend, even knowing that. It’s been true for some time, though, and I don’t believe it’s going to change.”

His hands retreated to hang at his sides. “And now we both know.”

Crowley’s mouth worked on its own for a few seconds, testing out the starts of words. “Years,” he creaked out eventually, as if that was any kind of response at all. His arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders shifted, not quite just hugging him like a friend anymore. “You can’t mean — years, _angel_...”

Two decades he’d been used to the idea that Aziraphale would never love him. He was too loud, too rough, too much. He’d gotten a face tattoo as an idiot kid and _still_ thought it looked kind of cool. Aziraphale, though? He was an angel. Soft and beautiful and miles above Crowley, in a city in the clouds, full of things beautiful as he was. Nothing like the dark cave that Crowley belonged in.

Except maybe Crowley’d been wrong. Maybe he’d been in the clouds all along, standing beside the most gorgeous work of art the bastards had, not realizing he could’ve reached out any time.

“I asked you why you called me that name, once. A very long time ago.” Aziraphale dipped his head, as though hiding a smile. “To be honest, I never entirely believed your answer.”

Crowley nodded vaguely, breathing in sweet lavender as Aziraphale moved closer. “Couldn’t tell you the real reason. Be, be weird, wouldn’t it? Didn’t want you to think I was weird.”

“You could tell me now.” Gentle arms wound around Crowley’s neck. “Why you call me that.”

He was so soft, when Crowley finally held him properly. All of him, fat and perfect, in Crowley’s arms at last.

“It’s because you _are_ an angel,” he answered. “Obviously. Too beautiful to be anything else, aren’t you?”

The supernova brightness of Aziraphale’s smile left Crowley staggered, literally, his feet actually stumbling back for a half-second. “And because I love you,” he added. Babbling now in the face of all that joy. “Been in love with you since the first time I saw you, maybe. Might’ve taken me as long as a week. Might’ve just been a crush at first, because you were so _pretty_ , angel, you were so so pretty.” His chest heaved a sigh without him. “Only ever got prettier since.”

Aziraphale’s lip wobbled just a little. “Such a wonderful man,” he said quietly. “Such a lovely, pure heart.”

He looked up at Crowley with his eyes bright and seeking. “Would you please kiss me?”

“Kiss. Uh, kiss... you? Would I...” Crowley swallowed. “But you don’t like kissing.”

“It isn’t as though I’ve _tried_ it in the last decade.” Then Aziraphale’s expression softened again. “I might enjoy it, if it... if it was you.” One hand traced along Crowley’s cheekbone. “If it was the man I loved.”

Crowley nodded, not really agreeing so much as thinking, as much as his stunned brain could manage. Of course he’d kiss Aziraphale, if that was what Aziraphale wanted. He’d been wanting to since the last century. But he remembered hearing what had happened with Aziraphale’s entomologist, the one who _had_ gotten to kiss him. He could see the way Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut now, face a little strained, even as he raised it willingly to Crowley.

Then there were Crowley’s own fantasies, and the one kiss they’d never included. So many daydreams of pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s hands, to his forehead and nose, his pretty second chin...

Crowley bent his head down for their first kiss, and discovered very quickly just how short all his dreams had fallen.

The skin of Aziraphale’s cheek was gloriously warm, and infinitely soft, and gave with tender grace beneath Crowley’s lips. Something in his chest opened, something wild and aching and sure, and he found himself letting go of Aziraphale’s beautiful round body so he could cup his hands to Aziraphale’s beautiful round face. He needed to kiss Aziraphale forever, and also stop immediately just so he could do it again. Maybe on the other cheek this time.

He made himself draw back, though. Smiled at Aziraphale, who opened his eyes and stared at him, mouth agape.

“Okay, angel?”

“Please kiss me again,” was the half-breathless answer, and Crowley did just that.

  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_  
  


Once on Aziraphale’s other cheek, to make things fair. Once in the middle of his forehead, and one on his nose, and on on his perfect round jaw. Once just at the corner of his mouth, and Aziraphale made a soft little noise before surging up on his toes and returning the favor. This time warm lips pressed against _Crowley’s_ skin, just catching the edge of his mouth, and something must have exploded somewhere in his head because there was a flat bang, and a dizziness, and an entire universe of just the two of them, trading an infinity of kisses in the empty shop — 

“What the fuck,” said a voice that definitely wasn’t either of theirs. “ _Really?_ ”

The banging sound. The front door, which maybe Aziraphale had forgotten to lock, or maybe it’d just been forced open. Crowley pulled Aziraphale into his arms again, feeling himself held just as tightly as they both turned to face their uninvited guest.

Aziraphale raised his chin, eyes narrowing. “I’m afraid we are very much closed,” he said. “Gabriel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: things continue to happen. :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, things continue to happen (all good).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** Couple of fatphobic lines of dialogue. The word "fat" is present, used in a positive context.
> 
> [Our lovely podficcer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/works) is attending to other matters, so there is not currently audio accompaniment for this chapter.
> 
> This is not the end of the story! There will be one more chapter which ineffablefool will try to have up on time next week.

  
_2020_

Aziraphale realized, as Crowley’s hands tightened around his waist, that he’d neglected to lock the door. He’d been distracted, of course, first by their good news, and then by... by everything that had come after.

Crowley drew him near, cradling him in protective arms. Aziraphale wanted to melt into that embrace, to rest his head on Crowley’s chest and listen forever to Crowley’s beautiful faithful heart — but there was an intruder to deal with first. He’d recognized the voice immediately, of course.

“I’m afraid we are very much closed,” he announced, dispensing with the politeness which his cousin had never returned.

Gabriel gave no answer at first, and it seemed he didn’t know where to look. His eyes flickered over Aziraphale’s face, then to Crowley; down to where their arms wound tightly around each other, Crowley holding Aziraphale somehow even closer as the seconds stretched longer —

Then Gabriel laughed. “God. I don’t know which one of you is more pathetic. You know this guy’s trash, right, Aziraphale?” His next words were directed at Crowley. “And I know you’ve been working this con for years, but come on. Aziraphale doesn’t have _nearly_ enough money to be worth faking it with _him_.”

Familiar anger rose up in Aziraphale’s chest. Was this really what they were all going to be doing now? Crowley loved him, all this time Crowley had _been in love with him_ , and instead of exploring that very delightful concept, here he was dealing with the most tiresome man in the world. It was positively offensive.

He felt Crowley pull a deep breath, and hurried to reply first. “I assume you didn’t come here merely to insult us. Why don’t you get on with it so that you can leave?”

“Whoa! Calm down there, tiger!” Gabriel raised his hands, face twisted mockingly. “Someone’s a little cranky. I’m actually here as a favor, but you’ve never really been the grateful type, have you?”

Aziraphale did not dignify that with words. Aziraphale merely twirled a hand to signal _get on with it_. And, grateful type or not, he found it terribly _gratifying_ when Gabriel’s face turned that particular shade of purple.

“Listen, you little —” Gabriel clamped his mouth shut, eyes closing for a moment, then continued on through a strained smile. “I vouched for you with head office as long as I could. ‘Aziraphale’s a reasonable guy,’ I told them. ‘He understands reality. Wouldn’t know he’s got the self-control to run a successful business by _looking_ at him, but he does.’”

Crowley made a sound as though he’d been struck. Aziraphale found himself almost wanting to laugh, though. _Was_ Gabriel truly down to attempted insults? Was that, after so long, all he had left?

“But I warned you that I could only help you for so long,” Gabriel went on. “And here we are! Heavensbridge has pulled the offer to buy.”

Aziraphale turned in Crowley’s arms. That drew another sound from Crowley’s throat, a tiny protesting hum; but Aziraphale set a hand over one of Crowley’s, as it slid across his side, to make it very clear that he didn’t want to be let go. He ended with his back snugged up to Crowley, holding one long-fingered hand atop his own belly. The other hand joined it immediately.

Held and cherished, Aziraphale faced Gabriel with his most innocent look. “Am I to gather, then, that your workplace is no longer interested in buying my shop?”

An eye roll and a grimace. “No, Aziraphale, they aren’t. You let a real sweetheart deal slip through your fingers there. Guess they should’ve said it with cake.”

Aziraphale very nearly did laugh this time.

“I just wanted to come by and tell you in person, since —” Gabriel’s face slipped into the least sincere smile Aziraphale had ever seen on it. “Well, we’re family, you know?”

The really remarkable thing was that Aziraphale believed him utterly. Oh, not the nonsense about him wanting to do a favor, or caring at all about their relation to each other. But Aziraphale was very sure that Gabriel had wanted to bring this news in person.

Gabriel really did have nothing left. No prestigious job, no complicated revenge plans. All he could do was lash out — try to pull Aziraphale down, so he could stand atop his back.

Hadn’t the damned fool been listening to his own comments all these years? Aziraphale was _fat_. There was far too much of him to be brought down by _Gabriel_.

Crowley’s arms were still around his waist, measuring out the good sturdy roundness of him in soft squeezings, in the gentle touch of hands. Aziraphale lifted one of those hands from the front of his waistcoat and kissed the palm before pulling away. “Family,” he said, “is an interesting thing. It’s not merely a bond of blood.”

He began walking towards the front, reaching for Gabriel’s arm as he did so. A not-quite-hidden look of disgust flitted across the other man’s face. He didn’t let Aziraphale get close enough to touch him, but he did allow himself to be guided, whether consciously or not.

“For instance,” Aziraphale went on, “I consider both of your parents to be my family, and I’ve no blood relation with your mother at all.”

They were nearly to the entranceway now. Gabriel stopped for a moment to give him a scornful look. “My mother is your _aunt_ , Aziraphale. That’s how family trees _work_.”

Aziraphale nodded affably. “I also consider Crowley to be my family. I have chosen him, as my dearest friend, and — and I believe I may say as my beloved, now.”

Gabriel made a choked noise, face pinched. Almost simultaneously there was another noise, behind Aziraphale, close enough to make it clear that Crowley had followed him across the shop. It did not sound as though Crowley’s face would be pinched.

“And you, Gabriel.” They were just inside the door now. “We share blood, through your father and my mother. But you are not my family.”

There was the start of a rebuttal, which Aziraphale very much enjoyed interrupting.

“Family _cares_ about one another, my good fellow. And I’m sure we both know how little you care for me.”

He opened the door.

“I think it would be better for everyone if I were to be left alone in the future. Don’t you? No further contact of any sort, from you or from any agent you might care to employ. I could take it to the courts, of course, but...” Aziraphale allowed himself a small laugh. “You’re a reasonable man. I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

Aziraphale had never seen his cousin at an absolute loss for words before, and it was marvelous. Gabriel barely even seemed able to muster up a halfway passable glare. He shuffled out onto the pavement without so much as a murmur of protest.

The door clicked gently behind him, locking in the only people who belonged here.

“Well, then.” Aziraphale took a moment to straighten his bow tie. “Back to more important matters.”

He turned around to find Crowley waiting. Aziraphale smiled up at him, into the warm golden depths of his eyes. Had those eyes always held such love in them? Had Aziraphale really not seen it in all these years?

“Angel,” Crowley said, and his voice was as tender as his eyes, his smile. As his arms, coiling once more around Aziraphale’s waist. When Aziraphale gentled his head down, pressing a kiss to the snake on his temple, he turned such a fetching shade of pink that Aziraphale couldn’t help a laugh.

“Oh, my love,” he said, letting his fingers tangle in Crowley’s hair. “I have so many of those saved up for you. I would hope you wouldn’t be so flustered so quickly.”

“Could’ve done them any time,” Crowley grumbled against Aziraphale’s neck. “Wasn’t like I would have complained.”

Aziraphale scratched his fingers lightly against Crowley’s scalp, his own heart warming when Crowley shivered and pulled him tighter. “I hardly knew that, now did I? I thought I... well, that I was in this alone.”

Crowley raised his head to look into Aziraphale’s eyes. “Weren’t ever alone.”

There were a few more kisses to exchange then, including one on the tip of Crowley’s nose which made him blush and mumble some more. When Aziraphale tried to move — they couldn’t just stand here beside the door all day, it would be silly and besides, there was a bit of a draft — Crowley slithered around to his side, refusing to let go of him even as they walked towards the back.

“To be honest,” Aziraphale went on, feeling his own cheeks warm a bit, “for a long while I thought you were... ah. Not of the appropriate persuasion.”

Crowley stopped. He looked down at Aziraphale, eyebrows climbing his forehead. “I’m sorry, are you actually saying you thought I was _straight_?”

“Well, I did realize my mistake eventually!”

The entire shop rang out with Crowley’s laughter, rich and deep and absolutely at Aziraphale’s expense. It was difficult to be too miffed at him, though, when he still held Aziraphale so tenderly. And he was so handsome when he laughed.

“Anyway, you wretched thing. It wasn’t as though it mattered at first.” Separating so that he could sit down in his own chair was obviously not acceptable. They curled up together on the sofa instead. “We were friends. You hardly needed to be biromantic for us to be friends.”

Crowley hummed a kiss against his neck. “So tragic, really. In love for so long with your very obviously completely straight best friend.”

“It wasn’t _so_ long,” Aziraphale laughed.

Instead of teasing him further, Crowley stilled, head settled down on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He relaxed into a sigh as bonelessly as a cat.

  
_Illustrations by apocalypsenah ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/))_  
  


“Should probably talk about our relationship,” he said. “Stuff we want. Or don’t want.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help a little bounce in his seat. “Oh, yes. Oh, that sounds wonderful.”

A tiny chuckle from Crowley, and a squeeze of the hand on Aziraphale’s side. “You first, angel.”

“Ah. Well then.” Aziraphale made sure to settle in comfortably, since he didn’t want to move from Crowley’s arms any time soon. “To begin with, I simply adore when you call me that...”

* * *

The walk over to Tracy and Anathema’s was delightful. Granted, the weather left something to be desired. It was gloomy and damp, with an occasional wind which made Crowley shiver in his fashionably impractical jacket. The route wasn’t any more interesting than usual, either, just a left turn at the bookshop door, past that wretched little coffee shop, and then the entrance to Crystal Magus was only a few paces away.

The walk was delightful, though, because Crowley was there.

As soon as Aziraphale had locked up behind them, he put out his hand. It was taken instantly. For the last few weeks, that was how it always was; if he wanted to hold hands, or to be held himself, he barely even needed to ask. That was, of course, assuming that Crowley hadn’t already offered his own hand, or his arms, or his gentle lips to bless Aziraphale’s cheek or hand or hair. Crowley, it seemed, always wanted to be touching Aziraphale. How lovely, then, that the sentiment went both ways.

An especially chilly gust of wind made Crowley mutter something profane, and Aziraphale permitted himself a little eye-roll. “I did warn you the weather would be changing.”

“Could take pity on me, instead of scolding.” Crowley moved closer, until their linked hands bumped their legs as they walked. “Could offer to help me warm up.”

Aziraphale beamed up at the sky. “I shall buy you a lovely scarf.”

Crowley’s theatrical groan was swallowed up by the rattling of the door as it opened, and Tracy’s cheery call of “Lock up, would you, loves?” from where she was neatening a display. 

Tea with Tracy and Anathema hadn’t changed, really, even though so much else had. It was Anathema’s turn to choose, so they sipped from cups of a fragrant herbal blend which she claimed would aid in comfortable sleep.

“Especially for anyone whose sleeping arrangements are in flux,” she added, and Aziraphale couldn’t shake the impression that she glanced rather meaningfully his way. As if she knew that, yes, he had indeed been contemplating changes to how he slept. He’d finally begun talking to his doctor about the insomnia after struggling with it for decades, in part because he was simply tired of spending half the night awake. That had never been enough to drive him to seek a cure before, though. He’d just grown used to it — the experience of tossing about for hours, of giving up and leaving the warm bed behind as a lost cause.

He was used to it, yes. But it would be an unpleasant experience for a potential sleeping partner.

He narrowed his eyes at Anathema, who smiled placidly back. That was the extent of her reaction. She surely would have told him if her ancestor had specifically warned against the idea. She hadn’t, so really, if one looked at it a certain way, Aziraphale practically had the past’s _blessing_ , in which case he couldn’t _not_ ask Crowley if he’d perhaps like to share his bed. Someday.

Tracy had missed the wordless exchange, or else she simply paid it no mind. “You know, I was talking to the gent who runs the pub across the way? And _he_ said that he and his neighbor have actually been thinking the same thing we have. About forming an organization.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow over his teacup. “Was one of those, years ago. D’you know whatever happened to it, angel?”

“Good Lord, that must have been —” Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, back around 2005 or so. Most of the shop owners for a couple of blocks were in on it.”

He wondered just how mixed Crowley’s memories of those days were. All the constant dodging of the people who were supposed to be on his side, but who’d never truly cared about him — it must have been exhausting. And all the while, he’d thought himself defined by his worst moments.

“There was a... specific issue at the time,” he said, and smiled when Crowley’s hand slung around his shoulder gave a gentle squeeze. “When it ceased being a concern, the association drifted apart.”

“Seems like a mistake,” Anathema replied. “There’s power in organizing. Watching out for each other. Collective bargaining with shared suppliers. We’d have to make it clear that this is a more permanent arrangement, if we wanted a real shopkeepers’ association.”

Tracy sighed. “There will always be more nasty bullies, I suppose.”

“So we face ‘em together.”

Crowley’s free hand held up his teacup, now, aloft as if he was proposing a toast.

“All of us. Together.”

He said it to the entire group, looking around at each of them. But on the last word, Aziraphale felt his shoulder squeezed one more time.

Anathema grinned as she raised her own cup. “Gotta keep sticking it to the corporate bastards.”

Four teacups tapped against each other amidst laughing agreement. Crowley’s eyes gleamed as he drank, and Aziraphale wondered what he was seeing. Anathema there across the table, perhaps; or the curtain behind her, and whatever of the shop floor might be visible beyond that.

Those golden eyes seemed focused on something more distant, though. Aziraphale rather thought it was the future. Not the past, which they’d both found sometimes difficult, and often lonely. Not even this newly-shared present.

Aziraphale rather thought they were both looking to the future, now. _Their_ future. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: an epilogue.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue, with family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-level warning notes:** The word "fat" is present, used in a positive context. One very brief and neutral reference to unintentional/aging-related changes in weight.

  
  
_[Podfic for this chapter](https://soundcloud.com/talking-to-myself-244702161/ghosts-of-your-past-and-mine-ch-14-epilogue) by dragonsquill ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/) | [Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/))_  
  


* * *

  
_The future_

The cottage was beautiful in the golden light of afternoon. Aziraphale rather thought it would be beautiful in any light. Ivy crept up one wall, and the garden, while small, was vividly green. The little gate in the hedge creaked gently as Crowley opened it.

Aziraphale didn’t move, too captivated by the sight. The roses along the border would be a mass of blooms at the right time of year, and the chimney peeking over the roofline hinted at winters full of warm, cozy fires...

A hand pressed softly to his back. “Come on, then. You can woolgather inside.”

“I wasn’t _woolgathering_ ,” Aziraphale said. He let the hand guide him up the walk to the house, though. When it slid around to his side, he didn’t even wait to be pulled closer; he snuggled close to Crowley on his own, putting his arm around Crowley’s much narrower waist. “You ought to be more cautious before slinging such an accusation about.”

“Woolgathering,” Crowley stated. “Up to here with wool that’s been... you know, gathered.”

At the door Aziraphale disentangled himself long enough to knock, and Crowley’s wandering hands moved to his hair. “Fluffy gathered wool,” he said, running his fingers through the pale curls. “Like a cute round little sheep —”

Aziraphale batted Crowley away, laughing; Crowley, meanwhile, seemed conflicted on whether to further muss Aziraphale’s hair, or instead grab his waving hands.

It was in the middle of all this that the cottage door swung open.

“Ah! Troublemakers!” said a voice which could still make Aziraphale feel like he was ten years old, hiding away in the bookshop dreaming new lives from its pages. “Seems you’ve been a bad influence on your fellow, there, Azzie. I’ll wager he’d be quite well-behaved if not for you.”

Crowley immediately stood up straight, hands clasped in front of himself. “Yep, definitely, all his fault.” He grinned at Aziraphale’s scandalized gasp. “Innocent as a little baby lamb, I am.”

Uncle Francis stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm,” he mumbled, still blocking the doorway — even in his seventies he was nearly as broad as he’d been decades ago — “Well, then, perhaps he’ll have to pay a forfeit for all this tomfoolery...”

“Stop teasing them, Frannie,” Aunt Tori laughed from somewhere inside.

“Oh, all right.” Uncle Francis moved back, looking to Crowley first. “As thanks for telling the truth, you get yourself a hug.”

Crowley was pulled into an enormous bear hug the instant he was through the door. He squeezed his eyes shut, giving back as well as his slender arms could manage, just as he did every time they visited the cottage.

“Whereas you, young rascal, can give your uncle a hug as forfeit for your crimes.”

Aziraphale’s turn was a familiar crush of strong, well-padded arms around his back. Uncle Francis never so much as shook hands without clear permission, but when a duly-warned individual stepped into range, they would find themself wrapped up tight and secure faster than they could say ‘boo’.

Aunt Tori appeared from somewhere, offering her own gentle greetings, before putting her arms around Uncle Francis in a way that Aziraphale now recognized from his own experience. “Your stew’s going to bubble over, love.”

“Troublemakers _and_ distractions! Do something with them, would you, I’ve a dinner to rescue.”

“I’ll keep them occupied.”

She squeezed him a little tighter, then kissed him on one worn cheek. Aziraphale felt himself reaching for Crowley’s hand.

Aunt Tori’s long gray hair had never been red, even in her youth, and she was several inches shorter than Uncle Francis, not taller. She looked nothing at all like Crowley, and in fact more recalled her son Gabriel, for the perfectly obvious reason. Francis looked much like Aziraphale, though. For years Aziraphale had wished he could be like his uncle, loved by someone who knew every one of his flaws, and loving that same wonderfully flawed person in return.

And here was Crowley. Beloved Crowley, who caught his hand and held it, thumb stroking against his.

Aunt Tori entertained them in the sitting room while clatterings and occasional mild oaths came from the kitchen. “Ah, yes,” she said at one point, smoothly covering an especially vigorous crash, “Crowley, I’ve got a pothos which refuses to stop shedding leaves. I don’t suppose you have any tips...?”

That set them all discussing houseplants, and the care thereof, and how, in Aziraphale’s opinion, Crowley’s were practically starved for affection. He did feel as though he’d had enough experience with the poor things to judge in recent months.

“And I swear he makes sure to lecture at least one of them each day.” Aziraphale did his very best to scowl at Crowley, despite not feeling like it at all. “Every single day since he moved in.”

Crowley’s arm along the back of the sofa lowered to drape over Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Just keeping them on their best behavior. Wouldn’t want any of them talking back to you, would we?”

“Oh, I get quite enough of _that_ from you.”

Crowley grinned, wicked and handsome and unabashed. “I’m perfectly polite!”

“You’re both perfectly ridiculous,” Aunt Tori said, laughing, “and I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been too quiet around here the last little while.”

Aziraphale clapped his hands softly against his knees, waggling his shoulders a bit. “Well, you _know_ what a rowdy lot we _booksellers_ can be.”

His aunt and Crowley both laughed at that.

Dinner was served with no major incident not long afterwards. Aziraphale and Crowley were shooed to the table, while Francis and Tori ladled stew and plated hunks of fresh bread. The two of them worked around each other with practiced ease, punctuated by the occasional touch of the other’s shoulder, a murmur here or there of “Behind you, love".

The kitchen in the flat above the bookshop was no larger than this one, but he and Crowley were already learning how to navigate that space together. _Their_ space, now, where their long strange orbits had finally become one.

“Azzie? You all right, there?”

Oh, dear. Perhaps this time it actually did count as woolgathering. “I’m all right, thank you. I was just thinking.”

Uncle Francis’s brow smoothed out a little. “Well, if nothing’s wrong, then there’ll be time enough for thinking later! Right now the stew is hot and the company is good.”

“Whether the stew is good,” Aunt Tori said in a mock whisper, “is always up for debate.”

Crowley did a very poor job of hiding a bark of laughter behind his water glass. Aziraphale didn’t even have that flimsy of a shield, although he did try to channel his own reaction into a feigned gasp.

Francis glanced to the ceiling, as though looking for strength. “Lord, and I try to love all God’s creatures, right down to Brother Snail and Sister Slug. But _you_ lot...”

Then he laughed, too. He reached across the small table for Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s hands; once he had them, he squeezed Aziraphale’s briefly before releasing it and taking his wife’s.

“You’re blessed easy to love. All of you.”

Perhaps he looked at Crowley just a little longer than anyone else before letting go, as if to be sure Crowley knew for certain that he was included. Perhaps it was only Aziraphale’s imagination. But he didn’t imagine the sudden deep breath Crowley took, or the way his mouth curved in a slow smile.

Aunt Tori smiled at them, then turned her attention to Uncle Francis. “You should be eating while the stew’s hot, love.”

“Ah, and why didn’t I think of that myself...?”

All four agreed that the meal was quite good, although Uncle Francis maintained he’d used too much rosemary. They lingered for a while over empty bowls and crumbs before Aunt Tori rose from her seat.

“You two run along while we wash up,” she said. Then when Aziraphale opened his mouth, “Ah — no, Aziraphale, you’re going to insist you help, and you know I’m going to refuse.”

Uncle Francis chuckled as he tipped some scraps into the bin. “She will, and so will I, lad. And you know how stubborn I can be.”

Crowley, of course, had already slipped away to the sitting room, because this was a battle they’d lost the last two times they’d visited. Aziraphale still paused before doing the same.

“May I...” It was foolish of him to be suddenly tongue-tied and blushing, wasn’t it? “May I ask a question about your... relationship?”

There was a moment of quiet, of traded glances between the two, but at last his aunt nodded.

“How long, ah. When should I expect to stop... being surprised?”

Uncle Francis tilted his head. “Surprised?”

Oh, this was a ridiculous line of questioning. He should never have brought it up. “It keeps striking me at the oddest times, while I’m, oh, doing inventory. Or hoovering. I...”

Aziraphale thought of the wonderful, beautiful man in the next room, and two of the very few things he knew to be utterly true.

“I love Crowley very much. He loves _me_ very much. And it keeps surprising me.” He forced his eyes up to meet theirs, vibrant and flashing like Gabriel’s, dark and colorless like his own.

“You’ve fifty years of experience with all this, though, and we’ve not even had five. So — do you ever get, well. Used to it?”

His aunt and uncle exchanged another look.

“Never,” Aunt Tori said.

“Not ever in life,” Uncle Francis said.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Good.”

He left the room to find his beloved.

* * *

Footsteps sounded behind him, creaking across the old floor. A hand slid down his arm.

“Everything all right, darling?”

Crowley considered the question. There was only one thing that wasn’t all right, really, and it was easy enough to fix. Just turn and gather Aziraphale close to him. There — arms not empty. Perfect. “Perfect,” he said out loud. “Why d’you ask?”

“You seemed pensive, is all.” Aziraphale gazed up at him, a little smile dancing across his lips. “I thought — well, if you’re not enjoying yourself, we could leave.” One beautifully fat hand traced along Crowley’s cheek. “They’d understand.”

Crowley shook his head. “Not that. Just thinking. Your aunt and uncle are so happy here, and all...”

A sweet little hum of agreement. The hand stroked over his cheek again, then smoothed back through his hair.

“And I thought maybe, uh.” Crowley felt his face go warm. “Well. Maybe we could... have a cottage of our own. Someday.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” The words came out in a sigh, as Aziraphale leaned his head against Crowley’s chest, both arms winding around his neck. “This is no time to think about leaving the bookshop, now I’ve finally got you in there where you belong.”

The whole world went fuzzy for a moment. Only Aziraphale was solid, was real, heavy and round and gorgeous in his arms. The sounds of Tori and Francis in the kitchen, talking and laughing over the clatter of dishes, might as well have been coming from the moon.

Crowley’s throat clicked. “Belong,” he said.

Aziraphale’s fingers wound through his hair, gently pulling him down. Aziraphale’s lips pressed soft and lingering at the corner of his mouth.

Aziraphale’s dark eyes glimmered at him. “Always, my treasure. You’ll always belong. Wherever I am, I want you there.”

One of Crowley’s hands lifted, removing itself from Aziraphale’s perfect waist to brush a thumb beneath his eye. Dampness. The glimmer didn’t fade, but Aziraphale smiled up at him all the same.

“Wh — you know.” Crowley brushed away another gathering tear. “You could be — saying more than you mean to, with all. All that talk about. ‘Always’.”

Aziraphale shook his head slowly. “I mean to,” he murmured. “I do mean to.”

Something in Crowley’s chest opened bright and blooming, huge enough that he could barely breathe around it.

“So you’d even want me with you in your — your retirement cottage, someday?”

“As if I ever plan to retire.” Aziraphale drew back enough to scrub at his own eyes. “But yes.”

Crowley could see it all now, all laid out before him, what he could maybe have if he wanted it. And oh, but he wanted it. Wasn’t even sure he gave a damn whether he deserved it or not. Maybe deserving had never been a part of it at all.

“Someday decades gone, when we’re old and gray.” He was grinning now, couldn’t stop, even as the words tripped out almost on their own. “Fuck, when I’m old and bald. And I’ve got a, a trick knee that always aches when it rains, and you’ve got arthritis, so I tie your bow ties for you every morning so you won’t hurt your pretty hands.” He pulled both Aziraphale’s hands into his own. “Nother twenty years from now. Or forty. Or a million or two. You’ll want me there.”

Mouth trembling, Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley dropped to one knee, and Aziraphale burst into tears.

In the kitchen there were voices, a sudden splash, but none of it mattered. Only one thing mattered right now, as Aziraphale dropped down beside him, right on his lovely behind with a sudden graceless rush. As Aziraphale grabbed him, _held_ him, sobbing into his chest, half-choked words in between the sobs. Words like _darling_ and _dearest_ and _always_. Words like _I love you_. Like Crowley’s name.

Words like _Yes_ , as Crowley held him just as tightly, his own tears falling even as his heart soared. _Yes_ and _yes_ and _yes_.

When Crowley had cried himself into the hiccups, and that had set them both giggling, and then Aziraphale had said “ _Husbands_ , oh, Crowley, I’ll be your _husband_ ,” which had started them both clutching each other and crying _again_ —

Eventually, Francis cleared his throat from the kitchen door. “Now, lads, you know I’d leave you your tender moment if I could. But all the dishes are very, very clean by now, so if you wouldn’t mind just a bit of an interruption...”

Aziraphale laughed wetly into Crowley’s shoulder. “Good Lord, we’re making such a scene. I must look a _fright_.”

“Lemme see.” Crowley cradled a hand against Aziraphale’s sticky-wet cheek. Eased him up again, holding his face in both hands, now, all red-eyed and blotchy, soaked through with tears and who-knew-what — “Oh, you’re a mess, angel. Just a gooey disgusting mess.”

“You might want to blow your nose, yourself,” Aziraphale said primly.

He made a wordless little sound when Crowley kissed his forehead, then turned towards the kitchen. “Terribly sorry,” he called, “you can come out now — we’ll be upstairs getting ready for bed.”

“Extra towels in the usual place,” Tori called back, and Crowley grinned as he helped his angel back up.

Shirts got discarded and faces washed, both of them crowded into the too-small bathroom without even discussing the idea. When Aziraphale squeezed past to get at the towel, his bare belly pressed against Crowley’s side, and Crowley stopped what he was doing for a second to savor it.

“I love you,” he said, just in case Aziraphale had forgotten. “Haven’t ever not loved you.”

Aziraphale’s mouth tilted downwards. “I wish I could say the same. It would have been so beautiful — if I could have loved you from the start, the way you should have been loved —”

His hands fretted at the towel until Crowley stopped them, holding them gently. “You got here a different way, angel. Took the scenic route. But we’re both here now.”

“I know.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley, pulling him absolutely unresistingly closer. “I won’t apologize for my heart working at this speed, any more than either of us would apologize for our sexuality.” He leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “But I wish all the same that you’d been loved meanwhile.”

When Crowley kissed the top of his head, Aziraphale made a sweet purring sound in his throat. Held him a little tighter. Not too tight to stop Crowley doing it again. “I was, though.”

“Mmm?”

“You weren’t — I know you weren’t _in love_ with me. But.”

He tucked a hand under Aziraphale’s chins, raising his head until they could look each other in the eye.

“I did know you loved me. From way back, I knew. Every bit as beautifully as this.”

He probably would have gone over if there’d been room, Aziraphale moved so quickly. Instead he was just pinned against the bathroom wall, being kissed over every single blessed inch of his face.

“I love you —” more kisses, peppered over his jaw, his cheeks. “I’m _in_ love with you, so much, my darling Crowley —” He let his head be pulled down so Aziraphale could reach his forehead, the tattoo on his temple, the spot right between his eyes. “With all my heart and soul —”

Crowley laughed, not so much from the kisses as from the fact of them. From the simple joy of knowing that he had _this_ , this was _his_ , Aziraphale was _his_ and always would be.

“Husband,” he said, or tried to, only the word was too big for his throat. “Yours,” he said instead. “Be yours forever.”

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled. “And I will treasure you every day of it.”

Crowley nuzzled his face into the cloud of white hair again, letting his hands shift over the padded curves of Aziraphale’s back. He’d dreamed of this when he was younger. Dreamed of holding all this softness in his trembling, reverent arms, without being quite able to believe it would ever happen.

Here he was, though. Holding an angel, both of them shirtless, skin pressed to flawless stretch-marked skin. Same as he’d done the night before; same as he’d probably do tonight, and the night after that. Curled up asleep together, where they belonged.

“Should probably go, I dunno, find my toothbrush now,” he said, words a lot harder to get out than they’d been a few minutes ago. “Or something. Don’t really want to start crying again.”

Aziraphale squeezed him one more time, then let him go. “Take as long as you need, my dearest heart.”

The guest bed was smaller than the one they had at home. A real pity, that, because it pretty much required Crowley to snuggle in close to Aziraphale. Head on the perfect cushion of his shoulder, one arm wrapped around his round belly. Tragic. Awful to lie against him like this, knowing that eventually he’d have to get up again.

Aziraphale’s voice in the darkness was bone-dry, once Crowley finally finished getting into place. “Are we comfortable now?”

As if he hadn’t slid his own arm beneath Crowley, cradling him in the crook of arm and shoulder and soft bare chest. As if his other hand wasn’t curled over Crowley’s arm on his belly.

“Mmmcomfy,” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s chest. “Sleepy. Shh.”

Aziraphale shifted, and then there was a tiny sound, a bit of pressure on Crowley’s scalp. A kiss. “You know, we should probably tell the others we’re engaged, now.”

Crowley didn’t answer in words. He tightened his hold on Aziraphale, though, squeezing even closer before relaxing again. Turned his head just enough to kiss the warm skin his cheek had rested against.

“...but all that can wait until morning.” Aziraphale hummed a sigh, wiggling deeper into the mattress, stroking his hand along Crowley’s arm. “Good night, my love.”

“Night, my angel.” Crowley smiled into the dark. “See you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it.
> 
> ineffablefool would like to thank everyone who came along with Mini Bang Team 27 Fun Name TBD (spoiler: it was never actually D) on this adventure. Like everything I've posted here, this was very pleasing to write, to watch unfold and somehow still surprise me even though I actually had an outline for the first time ever since the Mini Bang rules made me do one. And I got to listen to another human's voice read my words to me, and I got to see another human's work illustrate those words. These things are _amazing_. I am amazed. [dragonsquill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/works) ([Tumblr](https://quillomens.tumblr.com/)) and [apocalypsenah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalypsenah/works) ([Tumblr](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com/)) have been wonderful to work with, and I've gotten to babble at them about Star Trek and snakes and how pretty Aziraphale is, so I consider the entire experience a roaring success. Thank both of you, so much. ❤️❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you were thinking of leaving a comment, please know that I treasure every single one. I've literally cried a few times reading some of the lovely things people have said, and they really are fuel for my soft little heart -- but never, ever required, so please don't feel pressured. 
> 
> If you want to say hi on Tumblr, I'm [ineffablefool](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com) there, too.
> 
> I would never actively request art from anyone I wasn't paying, but if you, the human reading this, were to decide it was worth your time to create fanart based on any of my stories, I would be incredibly honored ([and would love to enshrine it forever on my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ineffablefool-gets-fanart-from-lovely-people))! I have only one requirement: please don't draw Aziraphale any thinner than the size I headcanon (I need both my soft cuddly daydreams, and my positive fat representation). Here are some examples of what that sort of minimum body size/shape might look like: ([beautiful fanart created for me by Squeegeelicious](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for)) ([speremint 1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([speremint 2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) ([dotstronaut](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how)) Otherwise, the characters can look however you like!
> 
> You can find [apocalypsenah](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com) at the same name on tumblr. She very much would like to live in the Soft Zone(TM), and is having a lovely time collaborating to help bring this story to life! You’ve got a wonderful journey ahead, folks.
> 
> We hope you're having a fantastic day.


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